Charlemagne Saga, Book I: Gelida
by Lepidolite Mica
Summary: As time marches on, ghosts of a forgotten order rise to walk the world once more, bringing with them strange abilities far beyond nature. Boundaries are drawn, allies found, and enemies made, but not all as they once were. Rated T for some violence and blood, and possibly more "linguistically liberal" characters later in the story.
1. Ch 1: Saccharine Smile

**Chapter 1: Saccharine Smile**

In times past and tales of old, there was once an isle known as Sampetra. There dwelt a tyrant ruler, Emperor Ublaz Mad-Eyes, who sought after six pink pearls of great luster, the Tears Of All Oceans. But that is a story for another time, my friends. What matters for now is, after the...deposition, shall we say, of Emperor Ublaz, the Isle of Sampetra was left to ruin, its forests aflame and its remaining inhabitants left to fend for themselves against cannibalistic lizards and their own lust for dominance.

Now, several weeks later, as the war began to sway in favor of the rats, a great fleet appeared over the western horizon. With black sails flowing in the wind, each emblazoned with a different icy blue symbol, they cast the perfect image of intimidation. The top decks were full to almost overflowing with all manner of creatures; rats, weasels, and stoats, yes, but also squirrels, shrews, hedgehogs, and otters. At the bow of the lead ship, her body wreathed with steam and her spikes growing more icy spikes of their own, stood a hedgehog maid. Her attire spoke clearly to her corsair nature; indeed, she was none other than Gelida Frostmane, the Ice Queen!

As the ships drew closer, all fighting on the island slowly ceased, as rat and monitor alike turned their sights to the fleet. As the lead ship made contact with the beach, the hedgehog maid, who had by this point inched her way to the front of the massive, frosty figurehead, now jumped lightly, letting her previous momentum carry her off the bow entirely. With practically no visible effort, she landed on her feet. She strutted forward, a vibrant smile on her face, and breathed in deeply of the smoke-filled air. Letting out her breath with a sigh of somewhat misplaced contentment, she turned back to the ship and shouted, "Come on down, boys; we've found a home!" At once, the decks were alive with energy, as seabeasts and corsairs leapt out, onto the beach or into the water, and surged forward.

The previous residents had never seen anything like it: the fleet's crew must have numbered several thousand, of all species, and they all seemed incredibly eager to be here. Not one of the creatures who would normally be goodbeasts looked even the slightest bit unhappy to be part of the crew, though they were all clearly pirates. As they set out across the island, several groups sang shanties and ballads, with none really bothering what any other group was singing. They spread out around the former war-wagers, gathering them together and leading them back to the beach.

"Well, well, what have we here? Former pirates, on my new island?" Gelida chuckled lightly, a melodious sound that made the heart flutter. "Tell me, who among you would like to be with a crew again?"

As the former searats began to realize what this meant, a cheer went up through their ranks. Gelida merely smiled and nodded. "That's what I thought. Well, if that is settled, then let me take a look at my new land." She turned and began to stroll inland, taking her time and looking around. As she passed a group of her crew, she paused, as if remembering something, and turned to speak to them. "Oh, and get rid of the monitors. They are of no use to me."

* * *

Seasons passed, and Sampetra returned to its former, dubious glory. Several shipments of lumber were delivered overseas, allowing the isle to rebuild once more. A grand port town rose up around the western coastline, with shops trading in every good and service, illicit or not. Traders bartered stolen goods, slaves and carnal delights of every kind, and once more Sampetra was a pirate port.

Yet all was not as it was before. The Ice Queen, whom time had neglected to age, had spread her frosty influence across the island, turning it from a lush tropical climate to one of ice and snow. This did little to dissuade pirates from porting at the island, but it did serve as a reminder of her cold, dangerous nature. From her palace of ice, and other building implements, I assure you, she ruled with a firm paw. Though her crews were inspired by her, and would not leave her service for the world, none dared cross her, for fear of becoming another statue in her great hall.

Of those, she did not have many. Two were monitors, frozen solid for Gelida's amusement in various poses of distress. After all, they hardly would have served her well, considering their cold-blooded nature. These stood on either side of the hall, within alcoves built for their display. Around their feet stood five more frosty cadavers: a rat, two squirrels, a weasel, and a mouse. For the most part, they bore expressions of abject horror, as one would expect from beasts so horribly executed.

The mouse, however, seemed almost triumphant in his expression, as though his icy immobility were nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Some unnerved guard had taken the liberty of turning him to face the wall, and Gelida was somewhat reluctant to turn him around again. Though she would never admit it (and, in fact, the frozen weasel was the one responsible), she felt insecure whenever she saw the mouse's expression. But he was frozen now, and there was no way his mere expression could harm her. And so, though it unnerved her to be anywhere near his corpse, she sat atop her throne, smugly satisfied with her victory over him.

It came to pass one frosty day that Gelida grew bored. She had once heard of Redwall, and the glorious feasts held within, and decided on the coming month's entertainment. She waved her paw, beckoning somebeast from the shadows beside her throne. "Mako, come here."

A badger stepped forward, one with grey fur emblazoned with two white stripes. He was short for a badger, in that he only stood head and shoulders taller than her; indeed, he was shorter than most foxes and otters. "Mako," said Gelida, "it has been brought to my attention that there is a place, not far to the east, where creatures feast daily on the most wondrous of meals. Would you be a dear and, shall we say, 'retrieve' some of those cooks, that we may have such a feast here?"

The badger bowed deeply. "Yes, my queen," he said in a deep voice, before sinking back into the shadows. You see, Mako was of the Marl, a strange breed of creatures. Their fur bore a unique quality, in that it could shift in color to adapt to its surroundings. This made those creatures of the Marl exceptionally stealthy, capable of sinking into any shadow as if they were not there.

Gelida sank into her chair. Soon, her feast would come, and she would dine like the royalty she was. It was good to be queen!

* * *

A dark figure lumbered through the forest. Standing a few paws taller than a badger, he was clad in black plate mail from head to footpaw, disguising his form entirely. Over his back was slung a massive sword, of the same shade of black as his armor. He seemed to be some sort of knight, but no coat of arms or helmet plume denoted his affiliation.

Now, in this region dwelt a group of tribal weasels, part of the regional mega-tribe known as the Flitchaye. And as the knight progressed through the forest, they began to grow restless. Who was this stranger? Why did he trespass in the lands of the Flitchaye? And why did the noxious gasses in the air have no effect on him?

This would not do; he had to be driven off. A weasel who took the name Ginko, when he felt he needed one, stepped out of the shadows and stood before the knight; several of his kin slithered into being behind him. The immense figure stopped and looked down at the sudden obstruction in his path. Breathing in heavily, Ginko began the traditional call of the Flitchaye:

"Flitch-aye! Flitch-aye! Flitch-aye! Flitch"***whump***

The figure straightened again, removing his fist from the splatter that used to be Ginko. The other Flitchaye gasped, then began to yowl and scream as they charged the knight. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, he reached up, closing one paw around the handle of his great sword, and drew it into a low horizontal swing. The flat of the blade made contact with the first Flitchaye in his path, smashing him into the next and so on, and sent the entire first line of weasels, about seven beasts in total, flying off into the bushes.

The rest stepped back, somewhat less confident; then the figure slammed his fist straight into the ground, causing a small tremor that knocked several of the weasels off their feet. Straightening once more, the figure began walking in his original path, breaking the skulls of those Flitchaye that could not evade his footpaws in time. Those that survived his attack made no attempt to stop him; whomever this strange warrior was, he had them hopelessly outclassed.

* * *

**Alright, let's get this over with. This is my first story, please rate and review, blah blah blah, something about grammar. I'd love to hear some criticism, but keep in mind that I have my own unique plan for this story, so don't attack the stranger bits (you'll know them when you see them). I'd like to remain lore-friendly, but keep in mind that the Dwemer were lore-friendly in TES, and they're still about as far from the setting as you could get.**

**That being said, if you see anything that looks out of place otherwise, like a poorly-worded bit of dialogue, or an inconsistent character, let me know. I definitely made a mistake, and if it hasn't been found yet, that just means it's well hidden. However, I would ask that you point out such inconsistencies to me via PM, as I may have made them intentionally. I like providing hints to clue people in that they've been misled.**

**EDIT: Minor revisions, fixed Flitchaye scene. Also, after reading the rules again, I'm going to be going back through and removing the song lyrics at the start of those chapters that have them. If the song itself is integral to the chapter's content, I'll keep the title, because those aren't copyrighted, and credit the original artist so you readers can find them and listen to what was running through my head at the time.**

**Credit to The Donots for the song title.**


	2. Ch 2: Beast of the Day

**Chapter 2: Beast of the Day**

Some ways north of Redwall, along the western beach near the inlet of the River Moss, a ship had docked. The _Sunder_, as it was called, was a slaver's galleon of the finest searat construction, hailing from across the western sea. After some manner of altercation, the _Sunder_ found itself unwelcome in Sampetra, and fled east to escape Gelida's wrath.

Now, as the sun began to rise, and mist set over the coastline, the self-appointed Rat Admiral Ripfang sat beside a fire, warming his bones. A vermin of minor renown, he had taken the name of a famous pirate captain from ancient stories; one who, as the story went, had tricked death and escaped his old age, such that he saw two badgers rule Salamandastron their entire lifespans. The Rat Admiral then tacked on said title to that name, because it sounded intimidating. Unlike the Ripfang of legend, this Ripfang did not bear the eponymous ripping fang (not that it was missed; the fang would have curled into his skull and killed him if it were not kept properly trimmed). He was, however, quite strong for a rat, able to lift a creature roughly his size with minor effort.

Several tents were scattered in the area, for the most part gathered around other campfires. All manner of vermin rested on the beach, sitting on the sand or pieces of driftwood, or lying close to fires. Not a one was unarmed.

At the south end of the camp, close to the forest edge, stood the oarslaves' tent. The makeshift structure was noticeably much lower quality than the other tents in the area; the vermin cared little for what amounted to cargo for them. No campfire had been lit to warm them either. Inside, nearly two dozen creatures huddled together for warmth. Though the tent was at least sturdy enough to protect against the wind, it did little to block out the dense morning mist, leaving the poor beasts inside soaked to the bone.

Outside the tent, Welking the stoat stood guard. After an argument with Ripfang, he had found himself demoted and stuck with the undesirable task of making sure the prisoners didn't escape.

As Welking watched, a shadowy knight emerged from the forest and marched to the tent. A cloth strap crossed his chest, securing a box on his back. Welking raised his spear at the unidentifiable creature and growled, "Who goes there?"

"Irrelevant," the knight replied. "What beasts does this tent hold?"

"Slaves," Welking muttered, "not that it matters to-hey!"

The knight had stepped closer to the tent and grabbed the tarp with both paws. With one massive yank, he tossed the tent aside entirely, revealing the startled prisoners underneath. Welking growled, stepping forward and jabbing the knight with his spear-

-and found himself flying across the camp, propelled by a tremendous backpaw blow from his adversary. His last scream alerted the camp to the danger at paw, before contact with the ground left him, shall we say, somewhat beyond the reach of medicine.

Ripfang snarled. Who would dare attack him, especially so early in the morning? He squinted down the beach, and spotted the knight. A badger? Yes, probably a badger. Badgers were common in this part of the country, or so he had been told. He picked up his sword and yowled, "Rip that beast apart!"

The knight turned his back to the prisoners, surveying the situation. With an air of finality, he reached for his sword and drew it. Then, he put the sword to his chest and sliced the cloth strap in half. The box fell to the ground and broke open, spilling all manner of weapons to the ground.

A muscular otter, Ranga by name, was the first to react. Picking up a claymore from the pile, he rallied the rest of the slaves. "Get to the forest; we'll hold them off!" Five more followed his example, grabbing weapons and forming a defensive line between the slaves and the vermin crew. "Eulalia!" Ranga shouted, evoking the time-honored battle cry of Salamandastron. As he finished the cry, the vermin met the defensive line, and the battle started in earnest.

Immediately, the dark knight set to it, swinging the flat of his blade at the first line of vermin, and for a moment several vermin found themselves actually outpacing the slaves. Granted, they weren't touching the ground, and the sudden deceleration at the end of their short flights killed them, but hey, it's the thought that counts. One of the defenders, a bankvole, ducked and stabbed upward, catching a ferret between the ribs. Ranga stepped forward, slicing down, and severed a rat into two-figure percentages of himself. As the first woodlanders reached the forest edge, the defensive line slowly shifted position, blocking the vermin from getting around them and into the woods.

The knight checked behind him, in the form of a clockwise full-circle swing, and found that most of the prisoners had now escaped. "Slaves clear; fall back," he commanded. Reluctantly, the defensive line broke, and followed the last of the prisoners into the forest. With one last swing to clear those vermin in front of him, the knight sheathed his sword. He bent down and grabbed a pawful of weapons, "_Adios_," he said, then he turned and sprinted away after the retreat.

Ripfang yelled in rage. How dare that knight steal his property? It was unacceptable!

"Should we follow them?" asked a fox with a rather ugly gash on his muzzle.

Ripfang ground his teeth and stomped the ground, incoherent with rage. After some time, he calmed enough to talk. "No," he growled. "Right now, we need to know how many we lost. We'll spend tonight, maybe tomorrow, to patch up, then we'll give 'em hell."

* * *

"Redwallers. It's those damn- it has to be those blasted Redwallers," Ripfang muttered, stomping around within his rather spacious command tent. You see, while he was fairly good at tactics, Ripfang was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Despite the fact that this shore was within Salamandastron's protection, and despite the fact that Ranga actually uttered Salamandastron's famous battle cry during the battle, it had not occurred to Ripfang that Salamandastron may have been involved.

No, it had to be Redwall, the infamous home of the goodbeasts. Though, as we will soon find out, Redwall was not actually responsible, nor was Salamandastron.

A short fox with a fading black eye opened the flap of the tent and peered inside. "Sir," he said, "we have a body count. We lost eighteen beasts this morning, and we only found one slave casualty."

"Eighteen!?" Ripfang roared. "Those thrice-damned-Grraaaagh!" He swiped a paw across the chart table, knocking several items to the floor, including a lit lantern. Ignoring the fire it started, and the fact that his tent was caught aflame, he marched outside, shoving the fox aside as he did so. The poor vermin fell into the fire, singing his fur badly. With a scream he leapt up and dashed to the ocean to try to put it out.

"Bastards." Ripfang clenched his paw into a fist, tightening so much that he drew blood. "You'll pay for this."

* * *

Friar Raspal laughed. What a beautiful pie he had created! Carefully, he removed the spiced apple masterpiece from the oven, examining the pristine crust as he did so. Yes, this would make a fine pie for Nameday.

Spring was nearing its end, and Abbess Peony had set the date for a Nameday that day. Already, the Abbey was in full swing, preparing for the great feast. Tables were set up in the orchard, sheltered under the boughs of the great apple tree that dominated the area. Beasts ran to and fro, pushing out great trolleys of food, carrying baskets of dinnerware or linen tablecloths, and fetching bouquets of beautiful flowers for decoration.

Abbess Peony walked along the length of the table, adjusting forks and knives and repositioning plates. Uniformity in decoration was somewhat of a hobby of hers, and one the rest of the abbey was glad to allow her. It certainly didn't interfere with day-to-day life to be neat, after all.

A hare appeared at her side. "Ah, hello, Tyrel," she said.

Tyrel simply noded and smiled. He had been rendered mute some time before, following a small skirmish with vermin. Back in those days, he was a member of the Long Patrol, the group of perilous hares that patrolled the area and defended innocent beasts from the likes of murdering vermin and scheming corsairs. After his injury, he retired from the service, and settled down in Redwall to live out his remaining days. He was still quite young, about thirty seasons or so, but his injury had given him much time to think, and graced him with wisdom beyond his years. It also graced him with a nasty scar on his neck, but let's not bother with details like that.

Abbess Peony sighed. "Isn't it wonderful? Summer is almost here, can't you just feel it in the air?"

Tyrel nodded, then made a few signs with his paws: "You-pick-name-season?"

"No, not yet. This spring has been quite uneventful. I suppose I shall just have to call it the Spring of Very Little Happenings, eh?" She laughed melodiously, a beautiful sound to hear. Tyrel laughed too, but without the aid of his vocal chords, it sounded more like several rapid exhalations.

As usual, far more place settings had been prepared than were strictly necessary. This was fortunate, as at that moment a great knocking sounded at the gate. Brother Fordel, the gatekeeper, came running over from the gatehouse. "Abbess," he panted, "there are several woodlanders at the gate, seeking entrance. They look like they haven't eaten well in quite some time."

"Well, let them in," Peony replied. "There are plenty of seats for them at the feast."

Fordel nodded and ran back to the gatehouse. Abbess Peony followed, taking her time. Presently, the gate began to swing open, and Peony found herself facing a sorry-looking group of beasts.

Physically, their injuries were fairly minor; they were malnourished and somewhat bruised from their treatment, but they looked like they would recover. Their postures, though, spoke of a different sort of harm; though their eyes shone with relief to have reached Redwall without incident, as a whole they appeared weary and disheartened. Behind them, like some sort of sentinel, a black-armored knight stood at attention. She could not work out what species he was, though his height seemed roughly equal to that of a badger. In one gauntlet, he held a bundle of various bladed weapons; as if noticing Peony's concern, he quickly tossed these aside. "Greetings, milady," he said. His voice resonated through his armor, echoing slightly. "We've traveled for some ways, fleeing a group of pirates. We seek shelter and food."

Abbess Peony smiled. "But of course. Come in, come in. You're just in time; we've prepared a feast to mark the end of the season."

The former slaves cheered, and rushed forward to join the festivities. The knight took his time to enter, though; he did not speak as he looked around at the abbey grounds. "Enjoying the view?" asked Peony.

The knight nodded. "A fine home, indeed."

"I must ask, where did all these beasts come from?" she inquired.

The knight delayed before responding. "A ways north, along the beach, there was a pirate encampment. These beasts were slaves to those creatures."

"I assume you were the one to save them?"

"Only my civic duty. Nobeast deserves to be a slave."

"Indeed." Abbess Peony smiled. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"Charlemagne, milady."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlebeasts," the Abbess began, "it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Feast of Nameday. After much deliberation, I have chosen to name this season the Spring of the Black Knight, after our season's hero Charlemagne!"

The table erupted with cheers. Charlemagne merely nodded by way of acknowledgment. "Would you like to say a few words?" the Abbess asked.

"No, madam."

Peony smiled. "Very well then. Let us say grace!" She bowed her head and spread her arms wide.

"Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,

All who enter by our door.

Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,

Berries, tubers, plants and roots,

Silver fish whose life we take

Only for a meal to make."

An "Amen" sounded across the orchard, and beasts began to serve themselves. Charlemagne had found himself seated between Ranga and Brenna, the Badger Mother of Redwall. After swallowing a bite of deeper'n'ever pie, Brenna asked, "So, what was the fight with the pirates like?"

Charlemagne stared at his untouched plate. He hadn't bothered to remove his armor, having explained that he felt more comfortable with it on. "Nothing worth mentioning, really."

Ranga guffawed. "No need to be modest, friend! I tell ya, this beast is amazing! Oh, he came marching inta the camp, and he pulled up our tent and smacked the guards away like it was nothing! He'd swing his sword right-"

"There was only one guard," Charlemagne interrupted.

"Shaddap, Charle; s'called artistic license. Anyway, he swings his sword right, an' there's vermin in the trees, and he swings his sword left, and there's vermin in the seas! I tell ya, he's a walking death sentence to vermin!"

Brenna nodded. "It must have been quite a sight to behold."

"Yeah, an' they had it comin' too," Ranga said enthusiastically. "Filthy pirates ran us ragged, makin' us row the ship, an' clean the sides, an' whatever else they didn' wanna do themselves. I jus' wish we'd've finished them off; coulda saved a whole bunch more goodbeasts from 'em."

Brenna raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You mean you didn't do away with them?"

"Nope. Charle called a retreat as soon as the pris'ners were clear. Dunno why, either; you know what they say, only good vermin's a dead vermin-"

"Life is precious in all its forms. They did not need to die for you to live."

"But think o' the future! Think o' how many innocent beasts y'coulda saved from a life of slavery!"

"And how many innocents would I have killed in their stead? The majority of pirate crews are little more than slaves themselves, forced to serve in the crew on penalty of death or severe disfigurement."

"So jus' kill the captain!"

"You are entirely too focused on killing."

"That's all those monsters deserve!"

Charlemagne stared silently at him for a few moments, then stood up abruptly, shaking the table as he did so. Several heads were already turned to the heated discussion, but now the noise of the feast died down as everybeast's attention shifted. "It seems I've overstayed my welcome," he announced, as he stepped away from the bench, his plate still empty and untouched. He turned and marched toward the gate.

Abbess Peony ran after him. "Wait!" she called. "Why are you leaving?"

Charlemagne stopped and turned to face her. "This community is toxic, and I cannot bring myself to willingly abide it any longer. If you have any further need of me, you will find me in my home at the base of the Southern Plateau. Otherwise, I bid you a fine feast, but I must take my leave." He turned once more and continued out the gate. The rest of the gathered beasts stared after him in shocked silence.

Abbess Peony returned to the table, disguising her shock under a straight face. "Well, you heard him," she said, somewhat reluctantly. "Charlemagne may not wish to be here, but let us not stop the feast on his account." She gestured with one paw to the tables, as if willing the feast to continue. Slowly, it did, but most beasts seemed distracted. Who was Charlemagne, really? What kind of beast would hide under all that armor? What did he even look like? The conversation, for a time, focused on questions like these, as the feast continued into the evening.

* * *

**EDIT: Last description was a wreck; gone now. Added Charlemagne's argument with Ranga, so he didn't look strange for just standing up and leaving with barely any provocation. Changed several details for consistency with plot, which was mostly undeveloped in first version.**


	3. Ch 3: Kick Him When He's Down

**Chapter 3: Kick Him When He's Down**

Mako sat in silence, eyes set on the east horizon. The iceberg he now rode, possessed of Gelida's cold power, would carry him exactly where he wished to go; all he had to do was will it so. Right now, it floated along at a steady clip, sped along its way by an otherworldly force.

Presently, he came within sight of land. Choosing a stretch of coastline that he felt appropriate, next to a strangely shaped rock, he directed the iceberg with a thought and told it to beach itself there.

As he came closer, he realized that the curious rock was, in fact, not a rock, but a galleon of searat design. He berated himself for his previous analysis, having thought the masts were simply strange trees behind the rock.

Closer still, he realized something else: he _recognized_ the ship. The _Sunder_, a vessel involved in a rather poorly executed raid on the Ice Queen, now lay beached on the coast. Slightly to the left, Mako could see several beasts encamped on the shore. He willed the iceberg to beach near them instead.

* * *

Three days later, Ripfang was poring over a map in his spare tent. With his crew still mending up, he had a bit of time to focus on actually finding Redwall. His efforts were somewhat hampered by his lack of spatial awareness, and the fact that the only maps depicting Redwall were lost in the fiery death of his last tent.

A rather charred fox dipped his head in again. The audience may remember this unlucky vulpine, by the name of Smack, from the tent incident a few days prior. "Sir," he said with a gulp, "there's an iceberg approaching the coast."

Ripfang looked up, fear in his eyes. "Iceberg? Damn it! No! That is the **last** thing I need right now! Tell them I died in the battle, or something; just don't let them know I'm here!"

"Yes, sir!" Smack bowed quickly, then ducked back out of the tent. The iceberg was now a mere fifty meters or so from shore, and closing the distance fast. Smack reluctantly walked to the shoreline, eyes practically vibrating in his skull. The last time he'd seen any of Gelida's iceberg ships, he was with the crew running for their lives. The icebergs couldn't carry many beasts, but they were plenty fast, and the beasts chosen to command them were frequently quite deadly in their own rights. Woe betide the beast that opposed Gelida on the water, for her icebergs would be their undoing!

It was at this moment that he realized that he was standing in the water, and the iceberg was not slowing down very quickly. In a moment of panic, he suddenly found himself unsure whether to jump left or right; the paralysis of choice left him, unfortunately, frozen in place. The iceberg came careening into shore, knocking him between the eyes and sending him flying inland. He lay, stunned to the edge of consciousness, on the beach, watching as a lone figure descended from the iceberg.

The figure walked inland, stopping to loom over Smack. With a surge of fright, he recognized the beast: Mako, a Marl-badger and the Queen's second-in-command! "Well, well, what happened here?" he asked, looking around before setting his gaze on the stunned fox at his feet.

"Black… knight… big…" Smack stuttered, still dazed.

Mako nodded; the description sounded familiar, but he could not place it. "Where is Ripfang?"

"Rip… fang… dead… ugh." Smack finally slipped from consciousness. He would wake some time later, but his head was too muddled to stay alert now.

Mako looked down the shoreline and spotted Ripfang's secondary tent, and a pair of eyes staring out from within. The eyes were quick to vanish, but their owner did not escape his notice. Mako chuckled inwardly; Smack's last conscious words were clearly untrue. Didn't Ripfang know that Gelida was simply having fun with him? Did he really think he could have escaped from the Ice Queen, _over water,_ under his own power?

Ah, no matter. He had a mission to get to. Letting his fur shift, he dropped from sight and continued inland.

* * *

The festivities were already two days past when he arrived. Shifting his fur to a more recognizable black-with-white pattern, he stepped out of the shadows and onto the road. Redwall's massive walls stood before him, built to keep out any creature that would dare attack, but they did little to impress him. He'd seen far more imposing walls created with a wave of his mistress's paw.

Approaching the gates, he shouted to any beast that could hear, "Ho there!"

Ranga the otter peered over the wall. "Greetings, badger!" he shouted back. "What business brings ya here?"

"My mistress has requested the presence of one of Redwall's famed cooks!"

"Yer mistress, eh? Tell me, where does she want our cook?"

"The Isle-" Mako cleared his throat. Something about yelling had thrown his voice into puberty for a second. "The Isle of Sampetra!"

"Och, I was part of an oarslave crew what went by there! I heard some nasty tales from the crewrats 'bout that place; I don' think the Abbess will approve of anybeast goin' there!"

Mako furrowed his brow. "Very well. Would you please speak with her about it? I will return in a few days' time for your answer!"

"Aye, badger!" Ranga disappeared for a second, then popped back up. "What be yer name, so I can tell her who's askin'?"

Mako thought for a second, then replied, "Stefan!"

Ranga laughed. "That's a right fancy name, friend! Any chance yer related to that Charle guy that came by here?"

"Charle?"

"Yeah! Big, black-armored guy, didn't talk much. Said his name was Charlemagne!"

Charlemagne. Now that name was memorable; it worried Mako, though he did not show it. "That sounds familiar; who knows, I might have met him once! In any case, I await your answer; until next we meet!" Mako turned away. He had urgent news to deliver to Gelida now.

Ranga, not keyed off to Mako's internal monologue, waved as the badger plodded away. "Right back at ya; 'till next we meet!"

* * *

Finally, after almost a week, Ripfang left his tent, sword in paw. "Are we ready?" he shouted. A chorus of roars were the reply. Raising his wickedly spiked cutlass, he roared, "Then we march! To Redwall!"

As one, the horde of pirates marched into the forest. All tents were left behind, and any cargo that would not be needed for the journey ahead stayed on the beach. As did Smack, sleeping peacefully by himself in the medical tent.

Smack was dreaming. He dreamt he stood within an immense darkness; his body was perfectly illuminated, but the ground immediately beneath his feet was nothing more than a mass of shadow.

Slowly, he walked forward into the blackness. Presently, he came to a ladder. The ladder appeared to be made out of old wood, and bore many twisted knots. The rungs were misshapen, tapering slightly toward one side and hideously un-parallel. He looked behind him, but saw nothing but blackness.

Shrugging, he set his paws on the rungs of the ladder. They were immensely cold to the touch, and slightly damp. Ignoring how strange they felt, he began to haul himself upward. The ladder cut off after a few meters; he felt around at the top and found that the ground ahead was solid. Pulling himself to his feet, he looked around.

A mouse stood before him, clothed in a brown habit. The hood had been pulled up over his head, disguising his features. A sword and shield lay on the ground before him, illuminated by some ethereal light.

The sword was finely crafted, with a wide crossbar and a perfectly straight blade. Set into the pommel was a brilliant red stone. The shield was well made too; a set of rivets adorned the outer ring of the circular surface, and an 'M' had been etched into the center.

The mouse gestured to the two tools, then spoke:

My friend, I bid thee, take your pick;

These tools will serve you well.

But you may carry only one

When you encounter Hell.

Misfortune claws and scars your soul,

But death has turned away;

But pass my test and you will find

A champion you'll be.

Within the land of Sampetra,

You shall begin your quest.

My friend, seek out the pinnacle

That's first north-east, then west.

My friend, find the red crystal fine,

That holds a captured soul;

And with your might the surface break,

Its owner to make whole.

As the rhyme finished, Smack groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was a quest, much less one on Sampetra. But as he considered this, the mouse looked him in the eye and pulled back his hood. In his golden eyes shone a fiery confidence, and his face was that of a warrior born. Could this be Martin, the legendary Warrior of Redwall? Smack had heard tales of him in taverns on the northern shoreline; it was said that he still lingered around the Abbey, and chose champions to fend off great threats to the land.

Wait, could that mean…! Smack stumbled backward, shocked. Was he really a champion of Redwall? There'd never been a fox champion, not in any of the tales he'd heard of Redwall!

He looked down, and suddenly recognized the sword: Martin's sword! Legends had it that the blade was crafted from a falling star, tempered to perfection by a badger lord. Its strange properties meant that it never lost its fine edge, and it could slice through anything short of iron, and sometimes that as well!

"Wait," he said, remembering the rhyme, "I get to take one of these? For the quest, I mean?"

Martin nodded, smiling.

"Can I take both?"

Martin shook his head.

Smack looked down, putting a paw to his chin. He would have to think carefully about this. The sword was a mark of status, and a fine weapon for anybeast. Having it by his side would label him as a mighty warrior.

The shield, on the other paw… Smack had a history of injuries and all-around bad luck. Such a fine shield would be invaluable to a klutz like him, even if he didn't immediately recognize it. Besides, if someone were to recognize Martin's sword, Smack would probably find himself one blade deficit. With his luck, such a theft was practically guaranteed, if he didn't impale himself with it first.

He bent down and picked up the shield. "Okay, I choose this."

Martin nodded. Then, pulling his hood over his head again, he faded from sight, as did the sword. Smack found himself once more standing in a complete void. The shield began to grow hot within his paws, and the ground began to freeze. He lifted a foot to step forward, and was suddenly seized by nausea. Fainting, he fell forward, and he was out cold when his muzzle hit the ground and gave him a nosebleed.

* * *

Mako was greeted with a curious sight when he returned to his iceberg. The charred fox, whom he had spoken with upon arriving at the beach, was now laying on the icy surface of his vessel, an ash-covered shield under him. He appeared to be bleeding from somewhere around his face, as the blood had seeped out and frozen his muzzle to the deck. There also appeared to be a small trickle of vomit frozen in with the blood

Mako chuckled. The poor fox was probably dead, judging by his numerous injuries. As he thought this, though, he noticed a faint rise and fall of the fox's lower back; he was still breathing. It mattered little; there was no hardship in being waylaid at Sampetra, at least for a pirate like the fox appeared to be. He could stay onboard for now.

Taking his seat at the bow of the iceberg, Mako willed it back out to sea. He had news to deliver to Gelida.

* * *

**EDIT: Removing long descriptions and editing chapters.**

**Credit to The Offspring for the song title.**


	4. Ch 4: Given Up

**Chapter 4: Given Up**

The sound of sliding paws on ice disturbed Mako's meditation. He turned to find the charred fox staring at him with a look of absolute bewilderment. A splatter of seagull droppings had found its way directly to his shoulder; it blended in almost perfectly with the char, sand, and vomit covering his patch-furred body. He waved meekly, a worried smile briefly flickering across his face. Then he abruptly broke eye contact, and started intently examining his footpaws.

Mako felt a small pang of pity for him, despite himself. Deciding to initiate conversation, he said, "You must be wondering where you are."

Smack sat down. No, that wasn't the right word. He didn't so much _sit_ as collapse into a vaguely seated position. He muttered, "A little," before vomiting in his own lap. "Sorry."

Mako waved dismissively. A small crack opened in the iceberg, collecting what vomit had pooled on it, and funneled it down into the water. "We are about seven hours from Sampetra, at our current speed. We should reach land by sunrise."

Smack replied with a head movement that vaguely resembled a nod. Then he got up, stumbled toward the back of the iceberg, and tripped.

Now, when most beasts trip, they usually just fall down. Smack, on the other paw, had mastered the art of doing things in the absolute worst way possible. He tipped forward like a drunken fool, caught the deck with his paws, pushed himself up, slipped on the ice, tipped _backwards_ like a drunken fool, and fell off the side of the iceberg.

Mako stared at the point where Smack had fallen over. The _right_ thing to do would be to save the poor bastard. On the other paw, he had an urgent message, and this would only cause a delay.

It took him less than a second to reach a conclusion. He held up a paw, and the iceberg came to a halt. He rose from his meditative position, stripped off his tunic, and jumped into the water.

Mako is an interesting name. It takes a very special kind of beast to be named after a shark. No, he couldn't turn into a shark. That would be absolutely ridiculous, and it would ruin the already dubious pacing of the story. Nor did he have gills, nor the specially adapted nostrils of a shark. But what he did have was a swimming ability better than an otter's, and _very_ good ears.

And bleak grey fur, and teeth filed to wicked points. I guess all you really need to be named after a shark is a little bit of time and a dentist that doesn't ask questions.

In any case, he moved through the water nearly as well as his namesake. The sound of a madly flailing creature was nearby, and he zoned in on it like a particularly bloody piece of chum-

Sorry, not a shark, I keep forgetting. He zoned in on it like… something, and took off through the water.

* * *

Smack, meanwhile, was watching a great white with mild interest. It had chosen to attack a shoal of graylings, and was shaking the life out of its soon-to-be dinner. It had gone after him first, but barely nibbled on him before realizing how bad he tasted.

Who could blame it, though? No one likes burnt food.

Right about now, any sensible beast would be scrambling toward the surface. Smack, on the other paw, was weighing his options. With all the misfortune he'd been thrown through, the Hellgates actually seemed like a reasonable option.

You see, Smack was a unique kind of unlucky. He didn't just have bad luck; it was as if the universe itself made an effort to make him absolutely miserable. The very laws of probability seemed to twist just to give him a kick in the face, or any other readily accessible body part. His youth had been full of bullying, trading families, and general discomfort.

He wasn't necessarily clumsy; in fact, he was quite the model of a healthy beast. He was fast, but something would always trip him. He was agile, but there was always something in the way. He was sneaky, but something always gave away his actions. It seemed no matter how good he was, life made it a point to give him lemons traveling as fast as physically possible.

No matter what, though, he couldn't bring himself to end it all. Once, when he was young and stupid, he figured this was because his conscience was made of stronger stuff than his body. Now, though, he was getting the impression that his conscience was on the same side as whatever dark god kept putting him through this life.

But now what was his conscience going to do? He was underwater, surrounded by sharks, and slowly losing his vision. This wasn't suicide; this was the curtain call, and he was going to damn well exit stage left, prophecy or no prophecy.

As his consciousness was almost gone, he felt powerful arms close around his ribcage, and the water started moving down around him.

Gods damn it.

* * *

Abzel was hiding. She had been hiding since yesterday, with a rather large bag of food. She had good reason to be hiding, too. Ripfang was a dangerous boss. If she stayed in sight, she could get hurt. So she hid. She hid in the pile of bodies.

She was munching on a cube of raw potato when she heard the pile shift. She scrambled out, pulling her bag with her, and dashed behind a nearby bush.

When she peeked out, the pile looked normal… No, wait. Slowly, a stoat was dragging himself out of the middle of the pile. His muzzle appeared to have been smashed inwards. His tattered fur hung loosely over his body, like a beast starved for some time.

The stoat pushed against the bodies around him, struggling to free his waist. Something, or possibly some_beast_, had caught his cord belt, and was now dragging down his pants. He tried his best to pull his way out of the tangle, but he simply wasn't strong enough.

Abzel, munching on her potato cube again, weighed her options. If she helped the stoat, he could turn out to be dangerous. She might even lose her vittles. But if he turned out to be friendly... Ooh, she might could get even **more** vittles! And he would be a really good helper with… getting tall things, yeah! And, come to think of it, he kinda looked familiar…

Oh.

Oh, _deeps._

Abzel rushed out of the bush and grabbed the stoat by his arm. Bracing herself against the pile, she pulled as hard as she could. Something snapped, and the stoat tumbled out. She looked over at him, then quickly looked away when she realized he'd lost his… well, his dignity.

She reached into the pile and grabbed the rags that had served as his pants. The cord that used to hold them up had been severed, but no matter; there were plenty of other belts here. She stripped one off a rat, then headed back to the stoat.

He'd shambled off toward the beach, and sat down facing seaward. She deposited the garments in his lap, then pulled his chin to face her.

"Welking?"

The stoat gave her a blank look. "Is that my name?"

Abzel opened her mouth, then shut it again. He certainly _looked_ like Welking, but if he didn't know whether he was Welking, how could _she_ know?

Then again, she had watched him die, from a blow to the face by some kind of badger or something. That _had_ to have messed up his mind. "Yeah, I think it is," she said. "Now, put your pants back on."

Welking looked back at the sea, then at the clothes in his lap. Slowly, as if every action took the entirety of his mind to focus on, he picked up the ragged trousers, slipped them onto his legs, and stood up. He pulled the drawstring on the old cord belt, then a confused expression crossed his face as the belt came free. He held up the cord and opened his mouth to ask a question.

"Here," Abzel said, holding up the new belt. Welking took it with a gratified nod and put it on. Then he looked out across the sea again.

"Well, what now?" asked Abzel.

Welking looked down at her. Abzel was... small, for a fox. _Quite_ small, in fact; she barely stood higher than Welking's waist. Her ears almost made up for it, being a fair deal bigger than those of a normal fox, but even with that height bonus she still was shorter than the stoat.

He studied her with vague contemplation, then looked up over her head into the forest. "East," he stated, and began walking. Straight into her.

Abzel jumped sideways to get out of his path. "Wh-HEY!" she exclaimed indignantly. He didn't seem to hear; he continued plodding forward, in a single-minded effort to do exactly one thing: walk east.

Abzel shrugged and started following him, then remembered something: her bag! She dashed back to its hiding place, fished it out of the brambles, and then scrambled off after Welking, with a cry of "Wait for me!"

* * *

Deep in the forests south of Redwall, Charlemagne caught sight of a fire. Keeping to the shadows, he edged closer to it, curious.

In the middle of a large clearing stood a pile of bodies, caught up in a blazing pyre. An overpowering stench of herbs and spices filled the smoky air, but it did not completely hide the scent of charred flesh.

Surrounding the fire, bowed in respect for the dead, knelt scores of weasels in tribal garb. The Flitchaye…

Charlemagne stepped into the firelight. Several weasels scrambled up, spears in paw, and formed a weak defensive line. Several were red-eyed with tears, and all wore expressions of bitter rage. Charlemagne held up his paws and stepped back a pace. "Woah now, what happened here?"

One of the weasels lowered his spear a fraction, and his face shifted from rage to confusion. "Morzar?"

Charlemagne nodded. "Paxel, what happened here?"

The weasel began frantically describing the event in his native tongue. "Nago afutade, kadara, gurara Flitchaye! Stefera, gurara Ginko!"

"Ginko is dead?"

"Je, Ginko nikora! Afutade gurara Ginko! Afutade stefera Ginko, koera suka a Ginko, pesaara-"

"Paxel, slow down; I haven't mastered your dialect yet, remember? Now, let me see if I got this straight: a black knight came and crushed Ginko, and killed a lot of the Flitchaye?"

"Yesyes, black knight come, kill lotta Flitchaye! Ginko go, say Flitchaye war cry, black knight crush skull!"

"What did this knight look like?"

Paxel started emphatically gesturing. "Bigbig black armor! Black like you, but spiky, not round! Talltall, crush Ginko with fist!"

"Oh dear. Which way did he go?"

Paxel pointed off into the forest. "Go thatta way! Morzar know blackknight?"

Charlemagne nodded. "I believe so. I pray I'm wrong."

* * *

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!**

**Ahem.**

**It would seem I have some pretty horrible time/character management skills. Among my various mistakes are Mako shaving five whole days off Charlemagne's travel time to Redwall, Smack apparently staying asleep for the entirety of Mako's time in Mossflower (yet somehow replying to a battle cry at the same time), Ranga seemingly forgetting that he visited Sampetra (even as an oarslave), and a sentence that wasn't finished (thanks, Thomas). A few edits have been made to Chapters 2 and 3 to fix these.**

**To my mysterious guest reviewer, ask and you shall receive. I've been in a bit of a rut because I had no idea where to go next, but now things are flowing. I do wish you'd leave some contact info; there are a few things in your first review that I'd like to clarify a bit, but I can't just go discussing them here, now can I?**

**Shout out to Dynamic Renegade, first to follow the story! I'm working on Chapter 5 already; I'll get it up when I can.**

**EDIT: I feel I should restate this.**

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!**

**I may have made a number of egregious mistakes in later chapters, specifically concerning internal consistency with earlier chapters. As such, my editing spree continues; I think at this point every chapter I've got up is subject to change.**

**Credit to Linkin Park for the song title.**


	5. Ch 5: Neck Made of Plasticine

**Chapter 5: Neck Made of Plasticine**

Abzel was starting to think that Welking had forgotten which way east was. For the past few days, they had been going _south_east, but he seemed to be oblivious to this. He continued on, propelled by his unnatural drive, far from his stated course.

And really, why should she bother correcting him? It wasn't like she had anything special planned; she'd ditched her crew and packed plenty of food, so she was fine with going wherever the stoat took her.

Right now, the stoat was taking her through a rather beautiful forest clearing. A dirt path crossed the center, worn down by countless footpaws over generations. On either side, the grass was the greenest green she'd ever laid eyes on; dwarf pansies, barely up to her waist, grew in small bunches all over the place. At the edge of the clearing, massive oak trees grew over the clearing, casting their shadow over the large black knight treading down the path from the south. Overhead, the sky was a rich shade of blue, the kind of cheery color that makes anybeast happy. Wow, today really was a wonderful-

Abzel stopped, backtracked two sentences, and screamed. Being a beast of very little courage, she immediately ducked behind Welking (who, unwisely, was standing in the middle of the path), and peeked out one trembling eye. That was _him!_ The black warrior from the beach, the one that freed the slaves! He found out about her, and he was coming back to finish the job! AAAAAHH!

Welking, meanwhile, was quite oblivious. All he saw was a rather tall beast in angular black armor, with a reasonably sized sword for such a creature slung over his back. So the beast likes defending himself; nothing to be afraid of. Abzel started pummeling his back and shouting at him to do something, don't just stand there, do _anything,_ PLEASE, but he held his ground with forceful indifference.

At this point, the knight had come to a halt in front of them. Abzel chanced another look, screamed again, and dashed off into the forest. Welking looked up at the knight, who was inspecting him intensely.

Abzel cowered behind a bush and watched fearfully as the knight raised a fist and punched Welking in the side of the snout. He fell to the ground, one paw clutching his once again ruined muzzle. Absently, the knight reached up and grabbed the hilt of his sword, then drew it with a sound of scraping metal. He raised it into the air, and-

-promptly received two metal boots to the face, as a _second_ black knight barreled into him. The first stumbled to the ground and dropped his sword, as the second, already back on his feet, moved between Welking and the first knight.

Now that the action had lulled a bit, Abzel had a chance to look at the two in detail. Both appeared to be about the same height, and had about the same shade of armor. Moreover (ooh, she liked that word!), both suits of armor had a similar aesthetic to them, like the same smith had crafted them. The one that had attacked Welking, however, had a slightly more angular design to his armor, with a bit of discoloration at the edges. She would call this one 'Edgy'. The other one, with the rounded pauldrons, she'd call 'Short Round'.

No wait, he wasn't really short. Ah, drat, the name was stuck in her head now. Oh well.

As Edgy struggled back to his feet, Short Round shouted, "Rogue tower unit, shut down!"

Edgy responded with a strange sound that sounded vaguely like some cross between crunching leaves and a flute. Had Abzel been born in another time, she would have called the sound 'whirring'_._

Short Round repeated the phrase, a bit louder and more clearly enunciated. "Rogue tower unit! Shut down!"

Edgy threw back another strange noise, this one practically bleeding with aggression, and threw a punch at Short Round's helmet. Short Round caught the fist in his paw, and twisted outward. With his other paw, he lunged forward, and grabbed Edgy around the neck. With a fair bit of assistance from his leg, he shoved Edgy away from Welking.

Edgy hit the ground again, but this time was much quicker about getting to his feet. This time, he'd picked up his sword, and with his momentum from reaching his feet he swung the blade in a wide arc for Short Round's shoulder. Short Round parried it expertly with his own wrist, then grabbed the blade with both paws and levered it sideways. Edgy completely lost his grip, and the sword was tossed aside. Edgy was quick to recover; he immediately aimed a punch at Short Round's helmet, and…

And…

And Abzel completely lost her pacing because of how freaking AWESOME that was! Short Round grabbed his arm, twisting it at the elbow, and sent his own elbow down into Edgy's neck, forcing him to the ground. In a voice that would have sounded 'through gritted teeth' if it weren't so echoey, Short Round stated, "Pseudo, disengage _see are vee see_ connections. Attempting manual shutdown..." Then he wrenched Edgy's head down further, and forced it clean off.

Edgy crumpled to the ground, all traces of life gone. Short Round picked up the severed helmet and stared into the visor, disappointment evident even through his own black mask. He shook his head slowly, and set the helmet down next to its body. Then, turning to look directly at Abzel, he said, "You, in the bush. It's safe to come out."

Abzel inched her way out cautiously. Short Round knelt next to Welking and said, "Are you alright?"

Welking uncovered his slightly bloodied snout and muttered, "I dink so."

Abzel gasped. Not because Welking had survived the blow with only a nosebleed, but because she had seen his snout absolutely wrecked by Edgy's blow. His jaw had been knocked off! Hellgates, there it was, _rotting in the grass in front of her!_ But here he was, sporting a brand spanking new jaw, like nothing had happened at all!

"You should come with me," Short Round stated, in a voice that conveyed much of the same feeling that Abzel felt. Notably, though, he was much more calm about it.

He stood up and walked over to Edgy's body. He knelt down and lifted the corpse with what looked to be relative ease, and hoisted it over one shoulder. Then he bent down to pick up the head, but stopped when the body began to slide off his shoulder. "Er…" He straightened and readjusted the body, then pointed at the head and looked at Abzel. "Can you pick that up?"

Abzel nodded, and picked up the head. Surprisingly, it turned out to be quite light; a quick look inside showed why. It was empty; no head in sight. Abzel looked back where the body had lain. No head there either! She searched around the clearing, but the head was nowhere in sight. She looked back at the helmet, bewildered, and then realized that there wasn't even a bloodstain. The head was just… gone!

* * *

The sun dawned on a bustling port town, as Mako's iceberg came in to dock. The great mass slid in between massive pirate galleons and little fishing boats, and slowed to a stop as a rack of icicles grew out of its side to form a boarding ramp.

Mako stepped off onto the pier, and started walking inland. Smack followed shortly behind him, having eschewed the steps in favor of gravity. "Ow," he muttered, clutching his bruised nose.

"You won't find sympathy from me," Mako replied.

Smack looked away. "Don't want none."

"Don't want _any._" The faintest hint of a smirk crossed Mako's features. Smack glared at him; he looked back at the fox with a featureless expression. "I have an urgent message for Her Majesty. If you wish to return to Mossflower with me, wait for my return at the Disgraced Legionnaire." He pointed to a dockside tavern, with a faded sign displaying an oddly plumed helmet. With that, he vanished again, fading into the scenery.

And who could blame him, really? In a town like this, the second in command openly marching about on the streets would cause no small amount of distress to the populace. Since disguise was out of the question as well, traveling through the shadows and across the rooftops was the best way for Mako to get anywhere.

Presently, he was before the throne. He bent down on one knee and began his report: "My queen, I bring news."

Gelida lifted her chin from her paw and raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Redwall Abbey has refused our request for one of their cooks, owing to rumors about our island from Ripfang's crew."

Gelida chuckled. "Ah yes, those twits. Did you happen across them, by any chance?"

"Yes, I found them camped on the beach where I docked. There were signs of a battle; the camp was ransacked, and the oarslaves' tent appeared to be missing."

"I see the freedom fighters in Mossflower are still active. Tell me, was it Salamandastron, or Redwall?"

"Neither, my queen."

Gelida straightened up in her throne. "I figured you wouldn't come back before completing your task if there weren't something of interest. Go on."

Mako cleared his throat. "It would appear one of our old friends has returned, my queen. One of the crew that greeted me reported a black knight as their attacker."

Gelida leaned forward and bridged her claws, a sly smirk on her face. "Oh?"

"When I arrived at Redwall, the otter I communicated with confirmed my suspicions. Charlemagne is active in Mossflower again."

"My, my," Gelida mused, "he hasn't been out in the sunlight in centuries. Well, this changes things. When you return to Redwall, kidnap the cook; however-and this is important-leave a trail for Charlie. Make sure he knows who's responsible, so he'll be convinced to come here."

"Yes, my queen." Mako rose and walked out of the throne room, fading into the shadows as he went.

* * *

The tavern was about the cleanest establishment Smack had ever seen. Every table had been polished to a shine, and the floors were free, or at least almost free, of the litter and loose hairs most other taverns were plagued with. He was beginning to regret not coming ashore when he was here last time.

Across the table from him, a clearly inebriated mouse sloshed around her mug and babbled on about some tale about her crewmates: "Aaaaannnnn THEN there wuzz Kankenn he wuzz, wuzz like, did exploshionsh annnn-and Balla'sh onna, onna main mast annnn annn she'sh yellin' attim annn she *hic* she throwsh a, throwsh, ummm… A SHPOON I GOT IT, throwsh a shpoon attim like THISH! *hic*"

That last hiccup saved Smack from some pretty nasty lacerations, as it threw off the mouse's aim and caused her knife to sink into the headboard behind him. Unfazed by the fact that she nearly stuck him in the eye, she immediately continued with her painfully loud story. "Annnner shpoon *hic* shpoon goesh and hitshhim, RIGH BETWEENNA EYESH, annnden he'sh lying onna deck annnnholdin ish fashe, annn annn she'sh all like, 'Cleen uppda messh you big baby,' ann he jus' oh thanksh." Her rambling was brought to a sudden halt by one of the barmaids refilling her mug. She guzzled about half of the mug, then slammed it into the table and sighed contentedly.

Somewhere on the other side of the tavern, a heated debate broke out between two rats and a rather buff mole. The mouse continued heedlessly, already on to another topic entirely. "Yanno, *hic*, yanno shometimesh I wonder why there ain't more moushe piratesh. Immmean, werra warlike shpechiesh, *hic*. Immmean, there'sh thish one moushe a lonnnng time ago what called himshelf Niiiimm, Numblue, Nimballlooo, shomething like that, THE SHLAYER. Yoooknow what dat meansh? Shlay, shee, it'sh got, like, dat thing widda wordsh, etimiligy errr shomeshuch, that makesh it mean SHLAUGHTER, orrrreven BUTCHER! That'sh, *hic*, that'sh like, really bad, buddddey, *hic*, call da piratesh da bagguysh. Immmean, *hic*, why diddey, *hic*, wouddey gonna call 'emshelvesh *hic* widdallla *hic* GAAADDDAMMM DARAFRAMMMM, *hic*, GANNA LEMME BLEEDIN' TALK, *hic* JIBBERING, *hic*, WHEEZING LIL, *hic*, LIL LUNGBEATER SHADDDAFAGGAP LEMME *hic* LET ME TALK _**SHUT UP OVER THERE!**_" By now, the argument across the bar had built up to an all-out fight. She swiped her mug off the table and flung it; it sailed across the room in a perfect arc, hit the mole in the temple, and knocked him out.

"Razzafrazzing little..." The mouse began grumbling incoherently as she slipped off her bench and marched across the room. As she neared the fight, she grabbed a mug off a nearby table, then grappled up one rat's back and slammed the mug across his skull.

The other rat, whom the first had been fighting alongside the mole, backed up and held up his paws. "Look, lady, I don't want any OHOHOOOOOOHHH!" he screamed as the mouse socked him in the tenders. He crumpled to the floor, cradling his injured pride, while the mouse stood over him, lecturing him in an incoherent, drunken rant at least thirty decibels too loud.

Someone else slipped into her seat across from Smack. "I see you've met Amity. We'd kick her out, but we'd lose our best fight-stopper."

"I can see that," Smack muttered, as he idly watched Amity chewing out the poor rat all but physically. Then he turned to the newcomer… woah.

He'd heard of these beasts last time he was here. In terms of face and fur, they resembled bats; however, the two could hardly be mistaken for each other. Whereas bats were small beasts practically overshadowed by their own wings, these creatures stood easily as tall as foxes. Their bodies were lean and muscular, with wide shoulders and straight spines. Their heels were flat against the ground, and their toeclaws curled to wicked points. In addition to their toned arms, which extended down to their thighs, they had massive sets of leathery wings on their backs, that despite all odds actually succeeded in giving them sustained flight.

From the rumors Smack had heard, these beasts had randomly showed up a few seasons back, and decided to build a tavern on Sampetra. They had made an agreement with Gelida, which granted them with an establishment in the city for their tavern and a portion of trade profits for the island, in exchange for offering free room and board to all visitors. Since then, they had provided their services to anyone who came through the doors, and reaped the profits of the shipping trade in the region.

Smack realized he was staring when the newcomer introduced himself. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Myriad; I own the place."

He held out his long-fingered paw; Smack took it for a tentative shake. "I'm Smack," he replied.

"TRAITOR!" came a distinctly inebriated shout from across the tavern. Smack turned just in time to see a bowl of beetroot soup flying toward his face, and then the impact knocked him out.

* * *

**If Amity's too drunk to understand, sorry. It pained me to write such corrupted English, but I couldn't get that squeaky drunk voice out of my head. Anyone who needs a translation, go ahead and tell me in a review or PM.**

**EDIT: Seems my author's notes cut out the last paragraph when I put this up.**

**EDIT2: Removed psychotic giant ninja death knight from fight scene, cleaned up dialogue and descriptions. The move Short Round is using after the edit is loosely based off a move in Eskrima, which is capable of breaking the spine if performed with enough force. A little bit more reasonable than whatever I was thinking when I wrote this last year. Also changed the title, because the song I chose made no sense in the context of the story.**


	6. Ch 6: Probably Just Art Theft

**Chapter 6: Probably Just Art Theft**

Recorder Mayton hummed softly to herself as she swept the gatehouse cellar. Down here, only dust and cobwebs disturbed the numerous records of the Abbey's history; when Mayton was done, not even those would invade this precious place.

You see, Mayton, unlike other beasts, enjoyed cleaning. Especially when she was alone. The silence gave her nothing to distract her frequently tumultuous train of thought, as it wandered through strange and scholarly roads. Besides that, the monotonous tasks that would bore other beasts were perfectly suited to occupy her paws; she didn't like to sit still, and actually found it much harder to focus when she did. As a Dibbun she actually went out of her way to cause trouble, just so she could be 'punished' and made to clean pots or sweep the Great Hall or whatever needed to be done. It took quite some time for the Abbey elders to figure out why she kept being a nuisance, and inform her that she could just ask to help clean if she wanted.

As the evening dragged on, she made her way between the numerous shelves; she paused only when her pile became too large, in order to sweep the pile into a cleverly folded baking tray and dump it into a pot. This pot would later be taken out to the woods, for its contents to be distributed in some cave or another. Gradually, she moved to the far end of the room, cleaning every crevice she could fit her broom into, and making the room shine-at least, as much as old sandstone could. Eventually, the months of shed fur and dirt that had accumulated since her last cleaning were all but eradicated.

She collected the remaining pile into her pot, shook off the broom tines, and put away the broom and tray, then moved on to the next task. While her paws were hard at work removing cobwebs and dead spiders, and convincing live spiders that there aren't nearly enough flies down here to justify making webs so why don't you poor little guys move outside, her mind was whirling about the subject of moving water. She had heard of grain-grinding mills that used the flow of a river to turn a wheel; could she do the same in reverse? Could a wheel be made to push water through it? Or, alternatively, could a wheel be made to push something else, like a boat, through the water? It could work, but she would need to power it somehow. Maybe pedals? She'd seen a set of pedals used to drive a lumber saw once; if she could reproduce that, she could make a… well, a pedal-boat. A fairly simplistic name, but it had a certain ring to it.

As she scraped the last cobwebs off her cobweb-cleaning brush (her own invention!), she turned her mind to her next, and most favorite, task: cleaning Martin's armor! The ancient suit of armor, once worn by the legendary Abbey champion Martin in battle against Tsarmina, had been entrusted to the Recorders after its retirement, and left in the gatehouse. After the cellar had been constructed (following a realization that the gatehouse upstairs was simply not large enough for the growing Abbey records), the armor was moved into its own small room, along with Martin's shield.

Mayton practically danced across the room, her mind full of grand adventures and brave heroes. She flung open the doors of the display room, twirled in place, and opened her eyes to a dreadful sight. The room was covered in a fine layer of ash, that clung to every surface. Several of the straps on Martin's ancient armor had been seared; a few segments of the plate metal that composed it had similarly been damaged by whatever fire had visited this room. Worst of all, the legendary shield of Martin the Warrior, wielded by Matthias against Cluny the Scourge, was-

* * *

"GONE!" she cried as she raced into the Great Hall, her eyes full of tears. "Oh, Abbess, it's gone," she said, falling to her knees next to Abbess Peony and clutching at her habit. The other beasts in the Great Hall-Ranga, Tyrel, Raspal, and Brenna, to be precise-turned to the spectacle, distracted from their current discussion.

Peony looked down at the young mouse sobbing into her robe, and reached out a paw to comfort her. "There now, Mayton, what is it that's gone?"

"The shield of Martin the Warrior is gone! The legendary shield, one of the great artifacts of this abbey, gone, taken from it's place of rest! Oh Abbess, it's gone, it was _stolen!_"

Peony lifted Mayton's chin with her paw, and looked her in the eye. "There there, child. You're overthinking things. Are you certain it was stolen?"

Mayton looked down again. "N-no," she stammered. "No, I guess I'm not."

"Indeed. Now, calm down for a few minutes, and describe what happened."

Mayton eased her way onto one of the dining benches, and thought back. "Well, I was cleaning the gatehouse cellar, and getting it presentable. I had just finished cleaning out the cobwebs, and I went to clean Martin's armor. But when I opened up the room, the shield was just… just… GONE!" She burst into tears again.

Peony's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Was there anything else, any other evidence of what might have happened?"

"W-well," she said, sniffing back sobs, "there was ash, all over the place. An-and the armor was seared a bit."

Peony's eyes widened slightly, and she turned and looked to the others in the room. A silent conversation seemed to transpire, as the gathered beasts looked at one another. Finally, Peony turned back to Mayton, and placed a paw on her shoulder. "Thank you, child for informing us. We'll look into it immediately."

Tyrel raised his paw. "Yes, Tyrel?" Peony responded.

Tyrel signed, "Go-tell-black-knight-come?"

Peony nodded. "Yes, excellent idea. Right now, we could use all the help we can get."

Tyrel stood up abruptly and saluted, a determined expression on his face. Then Ranga spoke up. "Er, not to insult yer injury or anythin', but wouldn't it be better if someone else went ta fetch him?"

"Tyrel is the fastest beast the Abbey has," Peony countered.

"Well, yeh, but is speed really nec'sarry here? Besides, if he wastes all his extra time tryin' to actually give the message, we ain't really savin' time anyway. I may not be as fast as Ty here, but I don't think Charl speaks in sign."

"Very well; you've made your point. Friar Raspal, would you kindly pack him some food for his journey-yes, Mayton?"

Mayton lowered her paw slowly. "Um… I want to go with Ranga."

Peony raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why?"

"I just… I just feel like I need to. Like this is something I'm supposed to do."

"Very well then." Peony turned to Raspal. "Looks like you'll need to pack for two."

"Oh, the burdens of a master chef," Raspal quipped. Then, seeing the look on Peony's face, he hastily added, "Hey, I'm not complaining. Food's what I do best." He stood up, then motioned for the two adventurers to follow. "Come on, let's pick you out some vittles."

After the three had left, Peony turned to those still in the Great Hall. "Shall we go inspect the crime scene?"

Tyrel replied with a questioning expression and a single sign: "Sword?"

Peony waved it off. "The sword is not missing; it can take a lower priority for now. The shield should be our main concern at this time."

The three left the room. Across the room from them, on the floor before Martin's tapestry, lay a pile of ash; atop this meager remnant of what was once its display mounting sat Martin's fabled sword, still warm to the touch.

* * *

"YOU'RE IN CAHOOTS WITH THE _FLITCHAYE?_"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't yell," Short Round admonished.

"Still, you-how-what-_why?_" Abzel stammered.

"Because I'm literally mere meters away from you."

"What? No, why do you know the Flitchaye? They're a bunch of _cannibals!_"

Short Round stopped in his tracks. The sound of a heavy inhalation came from within his suit, followed by a long, slow breath outward. His free paw meticulously curled each finger inward, clenched tightly into a fist, then released. Finally, he spoke: "The Yalza Flitchaye are _not_ cannibals; that stereotype has been perpetuated far beyond reasonable limits. They are simply withdrawn and mistrustful of strangers, as are many of the Flitchaye tribes." He began walking again.

Abzel broke into a sprint to catch up with Short Round. "That still doesn't explain much! What in the name of flying fur are 'Yowza' Flitchaye?"

Short Round paused, and turned to Abzel. "It seems an explanation is in order." He moved over to a tree, and deposited Edgy's headless corpse in its shade. "Toss me the helmet, would you?" he asked holding out a paw. Abzel, being far smaller, only barely managed to lob the helmet close enough for Short Round to catch. He set the helmet atop the rest of the armor, then sat down next to it. "Alright, where to begin…"

"The Flitchaye, as they are most widely known, are a… conglomerate, so to speak, of different tribes. They are known most prominently for two things: their war cry, for which they are named; and their alchemical abilities, which are the source of the infamous Flitchaye gas. Aside from that, though, the tribes are actually quite varied in actions and customs.

"Now, historically, the Flitchaye tribes have dwelt predominantly in Mossflower; however, their offshoots have spread out across most of the continent. I've seen them as far south as the peninsula beyond Portus Cale, and a good ways into the Pale Desert to the east of here. All of those different branches function in different ways; one of the tribes in northern Mossflower, the Morra tribe, hides underground, under woven mats that blend with the forest floor; another, Tirsa, uses the tightly packed tree canopy to move without being seen from the ground. The marsh tribe Furaya, a ways south of Floret, is particularly notorious for its use of traps and snares in the marsh mud.

"But I'm getting sidetracked. In any case, the Flitchaye are widespread and quite varied. Not only in methods, mind you. Some tribes are indeed cannibalistic, and capture wayward beasts to kill. Others are territorial, driving off, enslaving, or killing intruders on their land. Still others will capture beasts to rob them of valuables. The Yalza are actually quite low-key in this regard; they will attempt to scare off or capture most beasts that enter their lands, but they do not steal from or kill their captives, and they rarely commit to full-scale battles. Quite frequently, those beasts that fall victim to the tribe's gas usage are deposited away from their home, unharmed besides their incapacitation."

Abzel nodded contemplatively. "I get it, I think. Still, why do you even bother with them? If they're so, um, "low-key", why not just leave them be?"

Charlemagne held up two fingers. "Two reasons. One, they're basically on my porch. It takes only a few hours to reach my home from here, even at a slower pace. It's in my best interests to befriend beasts that close to my doorstep.

"Two, the Flitchaye gas. The mixture is a closely-held secret in the tribe, and for obvious reasons. The properties of the gas are a medical anomaly; they are capable of rendering a victim completely unconscious, without any long-term side effects. In addition, the gas works equally well against beasts of all sizes; other methods of incapacitation must be tailored precisely to a beast, based on size class, weight, heart activity, and so on. The medical and tactical applications of such a mixture are astronomical. However, the alchemical formula is only entrusted to those who are considered tribe members."

"Ah, I get it. So you befriended them so you could get your paws on their wonder-gas recipe?"

Charlemagne laughed. "Actually, no. I already knew the recipe by the time my travels led me back to Mossflower. I had learned it from another tribe, on the Southern Peninsula, after befriending them and joining their tribe. In return, I have given my assistance to all Flitchaye tribes that I have met, in honor of our brotherhood."

Abzel muttered, "I'll have to ask you more about those travels, when my head isn't spinning from new information."

Welking, who had up until this point been lagging behind, wandered into the clearing. "Why are we stopped?" he asked.

"I'm giving your fox friend a lesson on the Flitchaye tribes," Short Round replied. He pushed himself to his feet, and collected Edgy's remains. "It would be best if we continued onward now." He turned back to the east, took a few steps, then stopped again. "It occurs to me that I haven't learned your names yet," he said slowly.

"Um… heh. We don't know yours either. Um, I'm Abzel, he's Welking, nice to meet you, Mr..."

"Charlemagne," the knight said with a bow. As he did so, Edgy's helmet slipped off his body and fell to the ground.

Abzel picked up the helmet again. "That's a lot better than the name I gave you earlier, in my head."

Charlemagne cocked his head to the side. "Oh? What might that be?"

Abzel averted her eyes. "Um, Short Round."

Charlemagne lurched backward and gave a roar of genuine, hearty laughter. "Haaahahaha! Oh, heh, I'll have to remember that one! C'mon, let's get moving."

* * *

Smack came to his senses on a rather soft mattress, covered in something red. "Ugh…" He caressed his throbbing head and looked around.

The room was definitely well-kept; the immaculately polished birchwood furniture set a beautiful contrast against the clean, blue walls. The faint scent of lavender hung on the air, drifting in from the far window on a refreshing breeze.

No, wait. Smack sniffed his paw. Apparently, _he_ was the source of the lavender scent. Seriously? He didn't smell _that_ bad, did he?

Something stirred on the other side of the room, and caught his attention. Over in the corner, nestled inside a blanket on a well padded chair, was Amity. She yawned widely, rubbing one eye, and looked over at him. "Oh, you're up…" She reached over to the dresser beside her, and grabbed a bell from atop it. It produced a high-pitched chime, sweet and melodious to the ear. Then she unceremoniously dropped it on the floor, rolled over, and pulled her blanket over her ears.

The door opened, and one of the bat-creatures came through. "Morning, hon," she said cheerily, as she set down a tray of breakfast victuals beside his bed. "Alright, we've got pancakes with maple syrup, scrambled rock pigeon eggs-unfertilized, mind you-a berry mix from the farms, and some milk."

Smack picked up a fork, then hesitated. "How… how do I pay for all this?"

The bat-creature waved the question aside. "Oh, don't worry; we're happy to serve! Besides, wouldn't want to tick off your big friend, now would we?"

"You mean… Mako?"

She nodded. "Yep. Big fella came by last night looking for you. We told him about last night's little incident, and that you were resting upstairs, and he seemed satisfied with that."

"Oh." He looked down at the food. Something in him said that this was a debt he couldn't repay easily, and he shouldn't get himself in too deep here. That something was quickly overruled by the scent of fresh pancakes and eggs, and he dug in with zeal.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, a fully awake Amity and a jaw-nursing Smack returned to the tavern proper. "Once I can understand, kid, but _twice?_" Amity was chiding.

"I told you it waf an acfident!" Smack protested.

"And I told you, you should have realized they weren't pitted after the first one!" Amity broke off into a fit of laughter. "Hey, Meer! Hit me!" she said, clambering onto a bar stool.

"Comin' right up," replied Myriad from behind the bar. "Cherry mead good with you?"

Amity snickered. "Heh, topical. Sure!" Leaning over the bar, she added in a rather ineffective whisper, "The kid bit a few cherry pits in his breakfast!"

Myriad made a few quick breaths that resembled laughter. "Well, they were fresh." He reached under the counter, procured a mug, and set it under the tap of one of the large barrels against the back wall. The tap produced a deep red liquid with a fair deal of head. "There you are," he said, setting down the mug in front of her. "What about you?" he asked Smack.

"Eh." Smack looked down at his patchy, pink-stained fur. "Why am I red?"

Amity let out a weak laugh, then grew somber and looked away. Myriad picked up the explanation for her. "Well, Miss Atomic Bomb here got a bit drunk and decided that she didn't like you talking to someone else."

"Miss what-now?"

"Never mind; just an expression. Anyway, in quite the drunken tantrum, she threw a bowl of beetroot soup at you. We did our best to clean it off, but it soaked in pretty deep."

"Clean it off? You mean you gave me a bath?" Smack's voice rose a few notes in panic. "Don't you know what that does to vermin?!"

Myriad laughed. "Ah, relax. That old dissolution thing is just a myth; a little soap never killed anyone. Besides, you needed it more than you realize."

Smack growled at the implied insult. Myriad just held up his paws and grinned slightly. "Forgive a beast for honesty, will ya?"

The sound of music drifted in through the windows. Amity's ears perked. "You hear that, kid? There's a duel! C'mon, you can't miss this!" She grabbed his arm, hopped off of her barstool, and dragged him out the door, leaving her unfinished mead on the counter.

* * *

**Sorry about the Flitchaye rant. The original scene was pretty cheap; I played the "Welking's amnesia is suddenly patchy" card. The scene was bulky, and stupid, and completely cut off any actual explanation, so I scrapped it and tossed something together that sorta fit with the lore. (In the books, the Flitchaye were north of Redwall. Very big error; can't fix with my "old chapter editing" budget.) EDIT: I've sorely overdrawn on my "old chapter editing" budget at this point, but I had to fix several inconsistencies with my current canon. Back when I wrote this, I had very little idea of where I was going; now that I do, I have to change a lot to get it back on course.**


	7. Ch 7: This Ain't a Scene

**Chapter 7: This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race**

_I am an arms dealer, fitting you with weapons in the form of words._

_And, don't really care, which side wins; long as the room keeps singing, that's just the business I'm in, yeah._

As Amity pulled him through the packed streets, Smack marveled at the sheer number of beasts on the island. Everywhere he looked, beasts of all different species had packed into the streets, clustered on rooftops, and filled every last space with a view of the waterfront. All around them, whether crouching on railings, clinging to walls, or hovering overhead, a horde of the bat-creatures observed the proceedings with interest.

Smack had to stop marveling, though, when his snout connected with a low-hanging sign. He grunted in pain, but Amity showed no signs of slowing down, so he covered the bleeding snout and kept moving.

She led him to a rooftop near the waterfront, only a few paces away from the jetty that was the focus of everyone's interest. Out toward the end, at opposing sides of their stage, stood two rats glaring daggers at each other. Standing between them was one of the bat things, an abnormally tall one with lighter fur than the others that Smack had seen so far. He stood with arms crossed and eyes closed, striking an intimidating posture despite his unconcerned smirk. The two rats curled their fingers and rocked on their footpaws, as if tensely waiting for something to happen. Every once in a while, one would steal a side glance at the bat.

All around the dockside, the crowd muttered faintly. The music continued playing, a foreign tune conveyed by unfamiliar instruments. Smack could hear some sort of drums and cymbals forming the backbeat, but everything was layered over by what sounded like some sort of string instrument, judging by the faint sound of sliding between chords. This instrument, whatever it was, had a kind of growl to it, and sounded like something that would be shaking the floors if it weren't being played out in the open.

Somewhere behind him, Smack heard someone shout, "Get on with it, Scads!" The bat creature, whom Smack assumed to be this 'Scads', lowered his head slightly and grinned, showing a full set of interlocked teeth not at all dissimilar to a shark's. Amity took that as a cue, grabbed Smack's shirt from behind, and scrambled up onto his shoulders. "Better view," she explained.

Scads uncrossed his arms, and the ambient song died. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a resounding voice that reached Smack's ears as if he was only a few steps away. "Well then, if everyone's here that wants to be, let's get this party started!" At that, the music started up again; but this time, the foreign string instrument truly did shake the ground with its bass. The song also seemed much more organized, less like a warmup and crowd-gatherer, and more like an actual song. Then Scads began to sing.

Dear gods, this guy was sassy. The lyrics were at once rowdy and meaningful; and though Smack found himself unable to identify many of the words, he found himself nodding along with the beat. Scads paced around the left rat, as if inspecting him closely; all the while, he continued the lyrics without missing a beat. All around, the bats interspersed among the crowd provided a supplemental echo to various lyrics. In fact, the more Smack listened, the more it seemed like they might also be the ones causing the sound to carry so perfectly across the town. He couldn't think of any other explanation for the unearthly acoustics.

Smack realized that the two rats were no longer standing like they were ready for war. Instead, they had assumed postures that radiated with arrogant confidence. They watched each other with smirks on their muzzles, tapping along to the song and waiting for some sort of cue.

Scads moved into a sort of repetitive pre-chorus as he continued his inspection, then slid back into position between the two as he delivered the final line. Then he pointed to the left one, and began the chorus. Immediately, the instruments broke into a louder, more heated tune, as the drums started on a new, faster rhythm. Scads sang the same line twice, then let the song run without vocals from there.

As the chorus rolled in, Left Rat broke into a complicated dance of spins and rolls. Don't let that description fool you, though; this was no ballet, but a rigorous, full-body exertion that would leave any beast dizzy. He dropped to his handpaws, spinning his legs parallel to the ground while "stepping" over them with his arms. Then, he turned over into a crouch, kicked off the ground, and started spinning upside down, still doing the same stepping motion to preserve his momentum. His legs turned in an outward cone, as he rotated both perpendicular to the ground and around the middle of his own body. Then he tucked his arms in, and continued the same dual-axis rotation at ground level, supported only by his shoulders. Smack was starting to understand why the jetty had been polished so smoothly.

Finally, as the chorus ended and Scads held up a hand, the rat spun up to his feet, landing perfectly without so much as a slight tip to restabilize. Scads nodded approvingly as the next verse began, then turned to the right rat and began appraising her as well. As with the first verse, his lyrics continued flawlessly as he slowly paced around her. She stared intently at the other rat, mirroring his cocky grin with an equally smug expression of her own, and . Scads slid back into position, pointed to her, and began the chorus anew.

Right Rat had a different tactic to her dance. Instead of crazed spins and acrobatics, her moves focused on legwork predominantly. She half stepped, half slid around the jetty, as she executed a strange walk-in-place in perfect time with the beat. It seemed as though her paws weren't even touching the ground; her sliding movements were like she was walking on ice. Every so often, she actually did leave the ground, kicking off into a momentary angled spin, before dropping back into the same sliding dance with ease.

Scads held up his hand again, and she slid back into place with a grin across her muzzle. The song meandered through the bridge, then faded to the background as Scads stepped forward between the two dancers and held out his hands to the crowd. In a commanding voice, he stated, "All the boys who the dance floor didn't love, and all the girls whose lips couldn't move fast enough, _sing,_ until your lungs give out!"

The bats around the island began chanting the statement that the pre-chorus had introduced; by the second repetition, the rest of the crowd had joined in the chorus. Smack's ears began to ring from Amity's passionate chanting; for such a small beast, she was far too loud to be allowed so close to his ears. The instrumentation built up, cascading around the chant; until that strange string instrument cut in with a steep slide down the octaves, and Scads gave the chorus one last go. This time, he motioned to both rats, who broke out into their respective styles. The dance was now quite physical; while no actual blows were exchanged, both rats played off of each other's moves in a battle of intimidation. Then, all at once, the song ended, both dancers returned to their spots, and the crowd began to cheer.

Scads held up Left Rat's paw, and shouted "Cecil Gold!" The crowd cheered wildly; whistles and hollers mixed together into a cacophony of encouragement. Scads nodded, then let go of Cecil's paw and stepped over to the other. Holding up her paw, he shouted, "'Crazy Legs' Agate!"

This time, the crowd went absolutely berserk. Whooping and jumping greeted the name of the Smack covered his ears and cringed in pain as Amity loudly voiced her opinion. "Yeah! Go, Crazy Legs!"

Scads nodded again, which was starting to seem like his thing. "Well then, it looks like we have a winner! By a narrow margin, your victor for today, 'Crazy Legs' Agate!" He motioned to her, and the crowd cheered again. Amity joined in with her vehemently raised voice; Smack, who hadn't expected the aural assault, doubled over in pain, accidentally bucking her off his back in the process. She yelped in surprise, and tumbled to the ground.

"Hey, what wazzat for?" she yelled indignantly.

"Sorry," Smack muttered, extending a paw to help her up.

She took it gratefully, and was on her feet in no time. "Ah, no harm done. Come on, let's get back to the Legionnaire."

* * *

"So, what was all that?" Smack inquired, once they had found a nice corner table.

"Well…" Amity took a sip from her mug, then set it down and bridged her fingers. "Let's start from the beginning. Some thirty, fourty seasons ago, those bat things just showed up on this island."

Smack nodded. "That much I've heard."

"Hold on, I'm not done yet. Anyway, they struck up a bargain with Gelida, that gave them freedom to run this tavern, and generally stay on the island. She's never been very specific about the details, but she's entitled to that secret, at least. Thing is, though, they've grown to be deeply ingrained into the system of the island. Ever notice how there's no policing, no guards? The bats take care of that. No one quite understands how, but they can pop up just about anywhere in absolute swarms, at the slightest sign of trouble.

"Naturally, this means that disputes and rivalries are harder to settle. Scads must have realized that, because within the first season here he had already started a more health-friendly competitive outlet for the residents: dance law. It's not actually law, but whatever. In dance law, competitors dance along to Scads' choice of song, whatever that might be. It's judged by crowd ruling; the one that is cheered the most is declared the winner."

"So that's why Crazy Legs won?"

Amity nodded. "One thing, though: Scads wasn't kidding about a narrow margin. The bats in the crowd are placed strategically, to determine exactly how many people are cheering. Volume alone ain't enough here; if more beasts are cheering at a lower volume, that's still significant in the ruling."

"Yeah, okay, that makes sense." Smack took a sip of cider. "So, I take it dancing is pretty important here?"

Amity laughed. "That's the understatement of a lifetime! 'Round here, though it's not strictly illegal, fighting is generally looked down on. That means that the only method for settling disputes is dance law. So, naturally, the beasts around here take it pretty seriously. There's dance-offs, dance clubs, stamina and style training groups; fur, there's even an entire underground dance competition, with tighter rules and fiercer judges. The entire culture of this island has shifted, simply because fighting just can't solve anything anymore."

"Wow."

Amity nodded emphatically. "I know, right? Outlaw the common system of dispute resolution, and satisfy the need for it by providing an alternate outlet reinforced by the involvement of the peacekeeping force. It's perfect!"

Smack leaned back into his chair. "Eesh, you sound like some kinda royalty. You're way too smart when you're sober."

"Me? Sober?" Amity chuckled. "Naw, kid, I'm at least buzzed right now."

"Not a kid," he muttered.

"At my age, everyone's a kid. Well, except Gelida, but she's ancient!"

"Wait, you're old?" Smack said, before realizing that probably sounded rude. "I mean, you look so young!"

Amity's ears flushed red. "You flatter me. Yes, I am in fact quite old. Maybe sometime I'll tell you _how_ old." She winked, then climbed out of her chair. "Come on, let's see if we can catch Agate at her studio."

* * *

"...and Edgy just comes on out of the treeline, and hits him upside the face! And he goes flyin' across the camp, screechin' like a hawk! By this point, I'm thoroughly freaking out, so I dive into the nearest tent and knock out the support pole, and I'm just sitting there shivering in the dark-"

Charlemagne put up a hand to cut off Abzel's story. "Back up a bit. Who is 'Edgy'?"

"Oh, um. Heh. That would be the big headless guy on your shoulder."

"Yes, of course." Charlemagne repositioned the bulk on his shoulder, and cleared his throat. "It seems I have some explaining to do."

"Huh?"

"Ah… how do I put this? 'Edgy' was not responsible for the attack on your camp. I was."

Abzel stopped. "WHAT?!"

"Yes. I was en route back home from a business trip in the Far North. I saw your slaver ship, and decided to investigate."

"Wait, wait!" Abzel scrambled to catch up with the still-moving Charlemagne. "Why are you being so friendly now?"

"Because you are not my enemy. The only reason I fought the pirates at that time was that they stood against the slaves' release. They had chosen to be my enemies, and I am not exactly equipped for non-fatal warfare."

"But what about the weapons?"

"Hm?"

"You said you were just investigating, but you were carrying a giant box of swords on your back."

Charlemagne nodded. "Ah yes, that. I was returning home from a very successful trading mission. I provided my unique brand of services to an old friend, and he paid me with those weapons. It was my intent to smelt them down when I returned home, and use the iron for future, ehm, _projects_." Charlemagne looked back over his shoulder. "Which reminds me, I left most of those back at Redwall; I'll have to stop by there to recover them soon." He returned to looking forward, then motioned to the approaching cliff face. "Ah, here we are."

Welking's mouth dropped open. Abzel let out a low whistle. "Now _that's_ a door."

* * *

**Yes, Scads is singing the chapter title song. I considered adding in the lyrics, but thought against it. Here's hoping it works as is. For those who need some reference, Cecil is basically just breakdancing; Agate is doing some combination of shuffle and jumpstyle, with a little added flair.**

**EDIT: The batfolk have been here longer than 20 seasons. Specifics of Charlemagne's trading venture have been clarified in my mind, and the text is updated to match. Other minor fixes added as well.**

**Credit to Fall Out Boy for the song title.**


	8. Ch 8: That's a Door

**Chapter 8: That's a Door**

She was right; it was, indeed, a door. Quite an impressive door, too; a double door, in fact. It stood at least twice as tall as Charlemagne, and merged smoothly with the cliff face. The style was simple, but imposing; a lightly polished tan-hued frame bordered a dark grey body. The edges of the design were jagged and inconsistent; to the unobservant, the door could easily have looked like a cave entrance, or a peculiar patch of shadow. This close, though, there was no mistaking its door-ness.

Charlemagne walked up to the immense gate and laid a palm against it. With barely a whisper, the doors glided open, and revealed an immense hallway that stretched deep into the cliffside. He motioned to the others to follow, then marched inward.

Abzel whimpered slightly, as she began to comprehend the vast, imposing silence inside. In some places, like graveyards or caves, the sound of emptiness had a certain malevolence to it; even if nothing stirred within, you could tell that those places were just inherently evil. The inverse applied to temples and mausoleums; there, you felt a sense of regal bearing to the air, and did not wish to disturb the peace.

This place, though, lacked even that; the emptiness here was entirely void of moral undertones. This was not a silence to be feared, or revered, but _observed_. Analyzed. Used. It was a library fortress.

Charlemagne motioned for them to stop, and took Edgy's helmet out of Abzel's paws. "Wait here," he said, before disappearing into a side room and closing the door behind him. A few minutes passed before he emerged, with the massive cadaver no longer in tow. "Alright then," he said, clasping his paws together. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your accommodations."

He led them through twisting corridors and spacious rooms, pointing out signs along the way that would help them navigate the halls on their own. Finally, they came to a corridor filled with doors. He opened the first door on the right. "Here we are, Room D-31."

The room was a tidy affair; four beds sat in the corners, with pristine white sheets arranged perfectly on each. Beside each bed was a nightstand, and at the feet were wardrobes with intricate designs engraved into the doors. Small oil lamps sat on the walls on decorative mounts, their dancing flames adding to the friendly atmosphere of the room. In the center of the room, clustered around the central support column, stood four small tables with inset washbasins. Beside each basin was a small bowl with a floral arrangement; the scent of fresh-cut flowers filled the room.

Abzel let out a noise that could only be described as a _squee_, and danced into the room. She chose the bed in the far right, and immediately started bouncing around on the immeasurably soft mattress. Welking entered much more slowly, looking over the room with veiled curiosity. He made a full circle of the room, inspecting everything with care.

Charlemagne brought a halt to his exploration with a small cough. "Well then. Abzel, go ahead and make yourself at home. Welk-"

"We can stay here!?" Abzel was now practically touching the ceiling with her jumps.

"Yes, if you wish."

"FOREVER?"

"As long as you please."

"WAHOO!" Abzel performed a tight backflip, landing on her back square in the middle of the bed. She stared up at the ceiling with a dazed happy look, then squeezed her eyes tight shut and began dancing in place, still laying down.

Charlemagne stared at her a few seconds longer, with what could only be a confused expression concealed by his mask. Then he turned back to Welking. "If you'll come with me, Welking, there's something I need to check."

As Abzel looked for somewhere to stash her bag of vittles, Welking followed Charlemagne out into the hall. They left the dormitory wing, and returned to the main parlor. (Unlike Abzel, Welking was actually fairly competent at navigating buildings, and understood the concepts of parlors and wings.) From there, Charlemagne led him down a hall marked "R&amp;D".

After an extended period of intense silence, Charlemagne spoke up. "Something on your mind?"

He looked over his shoulder to find Welking staring at the ground as it passed underneath him. The stoat's eyes shifted to look at the ceiling, then the wall, before finally turning to Charlemagne. "Did you ever feel like you shouldn't know something?" he asked.

Charlemagne turned back to the direction he was walking. "Now that's an interesting question." He put a finger to his chin and thought for a second. "Well, if you mean 'dark secrets of the universe,' then I would suppose so." He looked back at Welking. "Why do you ask?"

"Well… I woke up in a pile of bodies, after what I'm told was a killing blow to my head. If I really did die, though, you'd think I wouldn't know… well, _anything._ But I can speak, and I can walk, and I know…" He searched for the word. "Well, _stuff._ I shouldn't know stuff if I died."

"True, true. If you were a normal beast, that is. However, judging by the fact that you're still breathing after death by blunt force trauma, I'd say mere partial memory loss is quite the blessing in its own right." He pointed to the oaken door that had somehow snuck up on them. "In here."

* * *

Inside was the most eclectic collection of items Welking had ever seen. Suits of rusted armor for all manner of beasts stood in glass-shielded display cases, various weapons hung on racks on the wall, and the back of the room was devoted to a wall-to-wall bookcase filled with ancient tomes and scroll cases.

"Watch your step," Charlemagne warned. "Most everything in this room is some relic or another, lost to time; I'd prefer that time didn't catch up to them just yet."

Welking's eyes strayed to an alcove in the wall, where a bleached clamshell sat clamped shut. He went to open it, but was stopped by Charlemagne's paw. "I would prefer if you didn't touch that; the power contained within is beyond your current ability to control."

"Oh." Welking's eyes strayed to the name plaque. "'Toao'?" he muttered. He could read, somewhat, but this wasn't a word he'd ever heard of before.

"Over here, please." Charlemagne had moved over to a freestanding display column. On top of the column was a glass dome; underneath that sat a sapphire of an unnaturally deep blue. The gem was roughly the size of Welking's paw.

Welking moved over to the case timidly, intimidated by the obvious importance of the jewel. "What is it?" he wondered.

Charlemagne lifted the dome and picked up the sapphire. "This," he stated, with a fair deal of drama, "is the Night Eye-a Tether."

"Okay… so, what does that mean?"

"Well, for a regular beast, not much. Aside from it being slightly harder to break, it's little more than eye candy. To the dead, though, it's a little more. You see, Tethers are specially crafted links to the realm of the afterlife, a process that imbues them with unique properties. The Night Eye in particular acts as a sort of bridge, allowing passed souls to return to this side and communicate with us. It's a property shared by many Tethers, but this one in particular is especially strong."

"So, it can bring the dead back to life?"

"Not this one, no. There are a few that may be capable of that, but they would require almost a lifetime of attunement. You see, Tethers are, in essence, little fragments of Creation. Broken, but in such a way as to be used by those who know how to wield them. And, while the knowledge of how to do so has a tendency to fade with time, the Tethers have a sort of… well, consciousness. They desire to be used; and when they are not used, they exert a force of raw greed, that drives beasts to find them and give them the use they so desire. This greed, though, is fairly subdued; and because Tethers tend to be objects of value, such as precious stones, it often seems quite natural."

Welking nodded. "I can see why."

"Now, for a select few-you may want to sit down." Charlemagne motioned to an armchair against the wall. Welking obliged; the chair, like the beds in the dormitory wing, was abnormally comfortable. Charlemagne continued. "For a select few beasts, Tethers have another effect. These few are shattered creatures, whose souls are torn between life and death. They exist in a cycle, not fully in this world, but unable to stay in the next. When these beasts come into contact with Tethers, they interact quite violently, widening the hole between the worlds and allowing the broken beasts to slip through. In the case of the Night Eye, the tumultuous void between worlds overwhelms them, pouring into their minds all manner of unexperienced memories and intangible sensations. It's actually quite cathartic, on particularly stressful days." Charlemagne carefully placed the stone in Welking's lap. "Now, I'll explain further if I need to. However, if my hunch is correct, that won't be necessary."

Welking stared down at the sapphire, unsure of how to proceed. "Uh, what do I do?"

"Touch it."

Slowly, he placed his paw on the gem. At once, a surge of energy coursed up his arm; he tried to remove his paw, but his body wasn't responding anymore. He felt the energy fly through his bones, across his chest, up his neck…

And everything went black.

* * *

The void between worlds was particularly orange, Welking thought. Not bright orange; more of a salmon-y sort of color. He was floating, presumably, right in the center, as if suspended in water somewhere below the surface.

Gradually, the blank expanse of color swirled and shifted, as streaks of red and yellow, and then green, began to flow across the image. The colors resembled pigment dropped into a pool, shifting closely together but never quite mixing.

He felt something brush against his arm; looking down, he found a yellow-green tentacle had twisted out of the seemingly unreachable, distant edge of the void to brush against his fur. It had an almost misty appearance to it, like some kind of ghost entity; Welking could see his arm through it, if he looked from the right angle.

While his attention was elsewhere, something else touched his cheek. He looked forward again, and found a young squirrelmaid, holding her paw against his jaw. Her form was only vaguely defined, stretched out of the same ethereal material that composed the tentacle before. She gave him a look that was equally soft and curious, and tugged lightly at his jaw.

He looked back at the tentacle, to find that it had turned into the paw of a well-groomed rat boy. He, too, was tugging lightly at Welking. Then another paw landed on Welking's shoulder, a massive appendage that most likely belonged to a badger.

Gradually, more and more spirits slipped out of the void, laying hold of Welking at one point or another. He looked around at the crowd with confusion and rising fear, as he struggled to free himself. The gathered souls felt his growing unease, and began to pull harder.

"No!" he shouted. "Let me go!" The spirits began to chatter, speaking in ghostly voices that resembled a low murmur in a crowded auditorium, only without the all too important element of actual linguistic content. As they boxed him in tighter and tighter, he found it increasingly more difficult to breathe. He shoved and swung at the ghosts trying to drive them off.

Then, without warning, the squirrelmaid grabbed his face again, and screamed. As she did, her visage morphed until it was little more than a massive mouth filled with wicked fangs. The shriek carried through the crowd, twisting them into similar abominations. They began to claw over each other, latching on to Welking's body with hideously curved claws and gnashing their teeth at him.

All at once, gravity returned, and Welking dropped. Through the gathered wraiths, through the orange void, he sped towards whatever substituted for ground here. The only thing that tipped him off to the fact that he was falling was the feeling of air moving past him.

Then, for the third surprise of his out-of-body experience, he was brought to a halt by the prong of a trident skewering him through the chest. Strangely, it didn't hurt (much), but it still brought him to a sudden and total halt. He looked down, and found that the trident was held by an unnaturally large fox. The beast's fur was streamlined, a deep fiery red that stood in stark contrast to the much paler void around him. A crimson cape hung from his shoulders, and one eye was covered by a black patch. He stood at least twice as tall as a badger, and was built like one to boot. Behind him, nearly invisible past the vomit-sherbet-colored fog, stood a massive gate

The great fox lifted Welking from the trident tip with one paw, and held him before his eyes. "So, my brother's greatest mistake comes to visit me at last." Despite his terrifying appearance, his voice was deep and calm, radiating a sort of eldritch power. "You should not have brought life to this place; they are desperate for it. Return now to the waking world, and do not tarnish my doorstep until your allotted time."

Without warning he dropped his arm, swinging Welking down past his hip, then brought him up in a tremendous underpaw throw. Welking streaked back through the crowded ghosts, colliding with the distorted squirrelmaid and tearing a hole through her side. As his vision began to fade, his last sight was her shrieking in rage and agony as her twisted yellow body disintegrated outwards from the wound.

* * *

Welking jolted upright, knocking the Night Eye to the floor. It took him a few seconds to start breathing at a normal rate again; his skin was still tingling and felt warm to the touch.

It appeared Charlemagne had left the room at some point. Taking his place was an elderly white rabbit (hare?), sitting opposite the room from him with an ancient tome in paw. When the Eye hit the floorboards, he looked up, then gingerly closed the tome and set it aside. He rose from the chair with a groan, then hobbled over to Welking. "Welcome back to the world of the living," he said, as he bent down to pick up the sapphire. "Was your sleep… refreshing?"

Welking held his head, which had started throbbing from the sudden jolt of waking up. "Ugh… how long was I…" He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"About three hours." The creature of indeterminate species placed the Tether back on its pedestal, and gently replaced the dome. Then he headed for the door, motioning for Welking to follow. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" As he left the room, he noted that the clam shell had been removed from its alcove.

"Master Charlemagne requested that I direct you to the mess hall upon your return to the living world. An urgent matter, the details of which I am not at liberty to disclose, has currently diverted his attention."

"Ah." Welking put a paw to his chin. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

The creature nodded. "I will answer to the best of my ability."

"Okay, first of all: rabbit or hare? I know hares are quite sensitive about being called rabbits, but I can't for the life of me tell which you are."

The creature laughed. "I am a rabbit, my good sir. Do not bother yourself too deeply about the distinction, though; I am not so easily insulted as my gluttonous cousins." He turned to face Welking, and extended a somewhat withered paw. "Seamus Mirdop, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Welking took the paw. "Um, Welking… the stoat…"

Seamus laughed again. "Yes, yes, Master Charlemagne has already informed me."

"Which leads into my second question: why do you call him 'master'? Are you a slave or something?"

This question, Welking noted, was the first to be met with actual indignation. "Heavens, no. Charlemagne is the master of this house, and I honor him as such. That does not make me his slave; I am no more than a guest, like yourself."

"Then why serve him?"

"I owe it to him, as a good houseguest. After all, I have been such for over thirty seasons now."

Welking began chewing the inside of his cheek awkwardly. "Oh."

"Did you have any other questions?"

"Ah… yes, yes I did." Welking struggled to remember the circumstances that spawned the question. "Um, so you mentioned my 'return to the living world', or somethin' like that. What exactly does that mean?

"It means that you reacted to the Tether, and in the way that Charlemagne predicted you would. It means that your soul exists in limbo between this life and the afterlife." Seamus stopped and turned to face him. "It means," here he paused for dramatic effect, "that you are an Aspect."

* * *

**Guh. I have delayed this chapter for far too long. I'm still not sure whether I'm happy with it, so if anyone notices any errors or inconsistencies, I'd probably be okay with violating my 'no major edits' policy. EDIT: I have violated my 'no major edits' policy. Tethers fixed, fox fixed, accent fixed, et cetera. Hopefully I won't have to do this again.**

**Anyway, I promised Blackish that I'd get back to Ripfang in 'the next chapter'. However, I'd already finished Chapter 7, and this chapter ran too long for me to put him here either. Because of this, I'll be starting the next chapter with Ripfang's section, just to make sure he gets in there. Sorry for the misinformation, Blackish.**


	9. Ch 9: Genocide

**Chapter 9: Genocide**

_Dog eat dog, every day; on our fellow beast we prey._

_Dog eat dog, to get by; hope you like my genocide!_

Ripfang was lost.

He didn't want to admit to it. This was hardly news that would benefit group morale; hordebeasts looked to their leaders for guidance, and if his horde couldn't trust him to at least pretend he knew what he was doing, then he would soon find himself replaced.

In truth, he had been going quite the wrong direction from the start. His path had taken the horde further north from the abbey than they were originally on the beach, and although he had managed to correct his course a bit, he still could not be sure when to turn south.

At this point, the horde had settled down for the night. The audience would do well to remember that most of their supplies had been left on the beach; they had to make do with what little they could scrounge up from the area.

Not to say that foraging was a poor option; in fact, the area was teeming with sustenance. After Ripfang had given his subordinates a crash course on edible roots and berries in the region, they had brought back several shirts full of provisions. (There was nothing else to carry the harvest with. You make do with what you got.) The archers had even managed to shoot down three woodpigeons; these were now roasting over the fire.

What's that? Do I hear you asking about Ripfang's "crash course"? Yes, I suppose that could use an explanation. You see, while Ripfang was definitely… erm, "gifted" with the classic irrationality of infamous vermin leaders of lore, he had a great deal more intelligence than they did in more basic matters. For most of his adolescent life, before he settled in with the wrong crowd and became the scourge of the seas, he traveled the world alone, learning the ways of the land. In those days, he was far more rational, as his anger management issues had not yet surfaced. This allowed him to learn from the lone beasts whom he met in his journeys; it's far easier to talk openly to a rat who isn't trying to look for gold in your chest cavity.

Or purse. Yes, a purse would be a much more rational place for gold.

Now, how come such a beast was now lost? Well, that was more the fault of his particular method of traveling. Back in those days, he never considered goals; all that mattered to him was going to sleep somewhere he hadn't woken up in yet. Still, despite his incompetence in navigation, his knowledge of survival on land had not diminished with his time at sea.

Which would explain why he was now tying a piece of his shirt, rubbed with wild garlic paste, over his nose, and yelling at his horde to do the same. "Archers, ready your bows and prepare arrows! Foxes, pack up provisions and douse the fires! Everybeast else, keep your paws on your hilts!"

One fox, excepted from packing duty by right of his archer status, stepped forward to Ripfang's side. Riding on his shoulders was a young squirrelmaid, whose tail and legs were matted, torn, and mostly missing. She sat in a special harness that kept her aloft; the straps crossing his chest complemented his sack-masked face nicely. "Switch, Evildog," Ripfang acknowledged the pair with a nod.

* * *

Now, this curious pair is going to need quite the explanation. Evildog was once part of a band of foxes that roamed the Northlands. One day, this pack got it in their heads to raid a village. Though his rather brash monicker would indicate otherwise, Evildog was quite against the idea, and only joined begrudgingly. As the battle wore on, most of the villagers escaped; the rest stayed and fought like mad beasts to protect their retreat.

As the battle raged on, Evildog found himself tucked away in one of the abandoned buildings, avoiding the battle as much as possible. In the relative silence of the empty house, he found he could hear sobbing coming from the cupboards. Inspection revealed the younger Switch, who immediately flew into a reckless, last-stand attack. The sound of her rage alerted another fox to their presence inside; when he entered, he congratulated Evildog on locating the straggler. He pushed him to the side, tossed Switch down on her stomach, and dealt a wicked blow to the base of her tail.

Some of you should know what spinal injuries do to the use of your legs. Evildog was not so medically aware, but he did recognize that his "friend" was torturing an innocent child. In that moment, he knew what he had to do; he lunged forward and knocked the other fox to the ground, knocking his sword from his paws. The fox snarled and, drawing a dagger from his cloak, slashed out Evildog's eyes. However, this only served to infuriate Evildog further; grabbing the other fox, he pounded him against the floor until his grey matter was proven to be rather a different color. With that last brutal act, he passed out.

The day passed, and the two injured creatures returned to consciousness. With a great deal of effort, Switch bandaged Evildog's now useless eyes; she did the best she could to clean her own wound, but her reach was rather limited, especially without the use of her legs. After everything had been tended to, that could be, they helped each other outside, to find the most sorrowful scene either had ever witnessed. Not a soul beyond them two remained; the village defenders and attacking foxes had wiped each other out entirely. Without homes and families to call their own anymore, the two set out on their own. Evildog acted as Switch's legs, and Switch as Evildog's eyes.

Now, how did this pair come into the realm of archery? Amazingly, that development came after their injuries. Switch was a whiz with calculations; she could plot the trajectory of an arrow in her head in a matter of seconds, with only a slight margin of error. She and Evildog developed a system of subtle taps and gestures that would help her communicate to him exactly which way to fire an arrow. After several seasons of training, they advanced to the point where they could hit a leaf from as much as five hundred paces.

But why would such a strange pair end up in a pirate crew? Turns out, prejudice is trending in the Northlands. Even if he had Switch's testimony for his good behaviour, Evildog's very name kept him out of most communities, and he was far too honest to take a pseudonym. Spurned from every community they encountered, the pair turned to the more accepting bandit clans. One thing led to another, and their clan ended up "recruited" into Ripfang's crew.

* * *

"What's goin' on, Admiral?" Evildog inquired, adjusting the hem of his mask.

"Did you smell the smoke? Faint, slightly sweet; smells like rotten fruit? Telltale sign of Flitchaye gas," Ripfang explained. "Not sure how we ended up in their territory; I was under the impression they were further to th' north than this." He turned back to the crew. "Are the supplies collected?" His answer came in the form of a brief salute from one of the now heavy-laden foxes. "Good. We're marching south." He turned back to Evildog and nodded.

Switch tapped on Evildog's head to indicate the direction of south, and he started moving. Ripfang took a step, then looked down and adjusted the rapier on his belt. In truth, this was little more than a ploy to convince Evildog to start moving first, so Ripfang would not be seen leading the crew in some direction other than south. He quickly returned to Evildog's side, though; only a select few beasts could truly lead from behind.

Only a few paces later, he held up a fist to signal his horde to stop. He drew his rapier and inched forward a few more steps. Then, suddenly, he jabbed the point down into the ground. Somebeast underground squealed briefly in shock, then went silent. He pulled the blade back out of the ground; the tip was now stained with blood.

At once the area erupted into motion, as a score of weasels dressed in bark and leaves leapt up out of the ground. They chattered in a primitive language, waving flint spears and axes at the crew.

Ripfang calmly walked toward the closest Flitchaye, his face almost completely neutral. He stopped only a whisker's length away from the confused weasel, then stood analyzing him closely. After a few silent moments, the weasel had had enough, and raised his spear to shout a battle cry.

Or at the very least, he attempted to raise his spear. However, this motion was cut off, along with his head and arm, by a few quick strokes of Ripfang's blade. "Archers engage! Swords flank right, packbeasts follow!" Ripfang shouted, returning to a neutral stance and picking out his next opponent.

Switch selected a target as well. She made a few quick mental calculations, then tapped on Evildog's shoulder. He raised his bow to firing position. "Left eight ticks, up two," she tapped; he shifted the bow slightly in response. She checked the angle, then tapped twice on his shoulder again.

The arrow shot through the air, impaling a Flitchaye weasel right between the eyes. The beast crumpled to the ground immediately. By the time he hit the ground, Switch had another target chosen and Evildog another arrow notched.

Ripfang advanced on his opponent, rapier poised to strike. The weasel raised his axe to deliver a tremendous overpaw blow; this proved to be a fatal mistake, as Ripfang lunged and sliced open his neck. Twisting the rapier away, he brought it up to parry a thrown spear and dissect its owner.

A guttural roar sounded from somewhere opposite the Flitchaye. A fox with far too much muscle mass lumbered into the clearing, swinging an enormous, bloody sword through the ranks of weasels. His body was covered only in an array of belts and straps, carrying a wealth of weaponry and gruesome trophies of combat - skulls, spines, femurs, and so on, all stripped entirely of flesh. Beyond this semblance of clothing, he was… well, quite shameless.

The impractically muscular beast tore through the Flitchaye like wet paper, leaving a trail of death in his wake. In no time, the weasels all lay dead, victims of the brutal double onslaught.

The fox motioned to the weasel at Ripfang's footpaws. "You gonna eat that?"

Ripfang mentally stumbled at the question. "Wh-um, no..."

"S'rude to steal other beasts' prey, 'specially if you're not gonna do anything with it." The fox stepped over the fallen beast, flipped his sword to a backhand position, and stabbed it down on the weasel's neck. The tip, which had curiously been smithed flat instead of coming to a point, severed the corpse's head with ease. The behemoth reached down (you'd think he was too atrophied to bend like that) and picked up the head, which was then thrust onto a hook on one of his many belts. Then he sheathed the sword in its carrying ring, pulled out a knife, and knelt down to begin carving up the rest of the body.

Ripfang watched with a mixture of disgust and morbid interest. Clearly, this fox was quite used to dressing his kills; he worked his way methodically through the corpse, sectioning off limbs and organs and placing them in marked bags. Within a minute, the kill was fully dressed and packed away, and the fox stood again. "Quite the crew you've got 'ere," he commented. "Where y'all headed?"

Ripfang sheathed his rapier with a quick flourish. While this wasn't the most trustworthy beast before him, he could prove to be a valuable ally. "Redwall," he said.

"Oh, you're one of _those_ gangs." The fox picked up another weasel corpse. This one, though was not treated with any care; he simply jammed it on a hook and slung it over his back. "Think I might come with you; I've got, a-heh, _business,_ with Redwall as well."

"Very well. But remember, if you join my beasts, you follow my orders."

The fox halted at these words, then bent down and brought his face very close to Ripfang's. With a full set of poorly managed fangs openly on display, he growled, "Nobeast commands Vrox the Devourer!"

Ripfang stared back, his expression hovering on the border of total neutrality and impractical rage. "I imagine that's because nobeast has ever tried," he replied levelly.

Vrox's expression immediately switched to dumbfoundedness, before he burst out into laughter. "Well met, meatling! Very well, I'll take your input into consideration."

"Then we march at once." Ripfang motioned for his crew to follow, and began walking in the direction he remembered from earlier to be south.

* * *

Most of the abbey came out to see off Ranga and Mayton. Many well wishes and fond farewells were exchanged Beasts of all shapes and sizes stood atop the wall, waving goodbye to the two messengers. They stayed atop the wall until the pair faded into the distance on the southern path.

Ranga adjusted the stuffed rucksack of provisions on his shoulders. It seemed to be enjoying tipping to the left, and the weight of it was throwing him off balance. "So, where're we headed?"

Mayton pored over her map of Mossflower Country. "Well, Charlemagne said he lived by the Southern Plateau. Trouble is, it doesn't look like anybeast has bothered to map the region. From what I can tell, it's somewhere to the east of the Great Inland Lake, here. Judging by the ruins of St. Ninian's, there, I'd say it's about a week's journey to pass the lake, then at most another week to the plateau."

Ranga wiped his brow, in an imitation of wiping off sweat. "Whoo! We'd best get moving; we've got a ways to go!"

Mayton rolled up her map and slid it back into its case. "Indeed. Let's just hope nothing too… _exciting_ happens."

"Aw, a little excitement never hurt anybeast!"

* * *

**Ranga, you brazen idiot.**

**Anyway, I've started summer quarter, so any updates this receives during the next few months were completed on the bus (I can't do homework then because there's no WiFi).**

**As promised, Blackish, here's more Ripfang, along with two characters I've been planning for a while. Until next time!**

**EDIT: More minor revisions; nothing too big this time.**

**Credit to The Offspring for the song title.**


	10. Ch 10: Dinner and an Expy

**Chapter 10: Dinner and an Expy**

Charlemagne's mess hall was clearly designed to host many more beasts than currently occupied it. The massive hall was far larger than even the legendary Great Hall of Redwall (at least, as far as Welking knew), and was lined with tables in neat rows. Abzel had settled into a table in the nearer far corner of the rectangular room, next to a small countertop. She was already tearing into what appeared to be meat jerky of some sort.

Welking seated himself across the table from her, while Seamus slipped behind the counter and began preparing something. He seemed to be working on a lowered portion of the counter, behind a small partition, because Welking couldn't actually see his paws. He could, however, hear something grilling, and smell a variety of delectable aromas wafting up from the kitchen behind the counter.

Abzel finished off her piece of jerky. Welking must not have been paying much attention to the tabletop, because the bowl she procured her next piece from didn't register in his memory as having been there before. He shrugged, and reached for a strip himself.

The taste was… hmm. It smelled somewhat like a sour apple, and tasted a bit like it too, but the taste was mixed with a few other fruits as well, and a fair deal of salt, while still containing that distinct flavor of meat. Curiously, the texture was reminiscent of fish jerky, and it came apart rather more easily than other meat jerkies tended to. He popped the rest in his mouth to chew away, picked up another piece, and began rubbing it with his pawfingers. Strange… the jerky didn't seem to have any sauce on it. Perhaps the fruity flavors were marinated in? Well, he could always ask. "Seamus-"

"Water beetle."

Welking paused for a moment. "Um, what?"

Seamus kept his eyes on his work behind the counter. "The jerky is made from water beetle meat."

"Beetles?" He looked down at the strip in his paws, suddenly not nearly as hungry. "You mean like… bugs?"

Abzel took his moment of trepidation to swipe the piece from his paws and pop it in her mouth. "If it's weird, and it's tasty, it's not weird," she mused through a mouthful of stolen beetle jerky.

"Well said," Seamus commented, picking up a cutting board and scraping the contents into a pot that appeared to be simmering on an obscured fire. "That particular species of giant water beetle is locally cultivated for meat around the plateau. Charlemagne prefers to keep options on paw for those beasts with a biological predisposition for a carnivorous diet, and birds are a bit too high-maintenance."

"Oh. Thoughtful." Welking decided to forego his apprehension and have another strip.

"Indeed. Certain species of mammals, reptiles, and raptors are simply unable to digest vegetation for nutrients. Better to give them something to eat that won't mark them as cannibals, than to force them to go hungry for sake of their biology."

Welking chewed silently for a moment. "So, the taste…"

"That is their natural flavor." Seamus ladled the contents of the pot into five bowls, four of which were set behind the counter next to the pot. The fifth was set aside on a tray outside the kitchen; shortly, it was joined by a small arrangement of fruit slices. Then, Seamus opened up a panel on the wall, slid in the tray, and performed some action that was obscured by his back. After a little while, he closed the panel and stepped away; Welking's keen eye noticed, in the fraction of a second that the compartment was unobscured, that the tray had vanished.

It's amazing what an empty mind does for your perception.

Seamus returned to the kitchen, set a few more things next to the bowls, and then picked up the previously obscured tray that the food was set upon. This tray was much larger than the one that had disappeared into the wall compartment, and in fact seemed to be holding four of those same trays atop it. Seamus carried over the serving tray to the table, set out the four smaller trays, and sat down next to Abzel.

Welking picked up the silverware on the tray, then stopped to count. "Uh, Seamus, who was the tray in the wall for?"

Seamus put down the apple slice he was about to put in his mouth. "Charlemagne is currently working on a vital project, and cannot accompany us for dinner, so I sent his meal down to him."

"Oh." Welking looked at the untouched setting beside him. "So then…"

"Our final guest will be along shortly." Seamus took a moment to finally consume the apple slice he had been holding off on. "In fact," he said after he had swallowed, "I do believe she is already with us." He looked over at the door, and Welking followed his gaze. "They are your father's guests, Katrina," Seamus explained to the empty doorway.

A few seconds passed, then a foxmaid emerged from around the corner. She was dressed in a curiously colored outfit, a well planned mixture of secretive blacks and vibrant purple and turquoise. Her face was hidden by a wide-brimmed hat adorned with two feathers in the same radiant colors that accented the rest of her outfit.

Despite her flamboyantly colored getup, she had the demeanor of someone who didn't socialize well. She kept her head low, obscuring her eyes under the brim of her hat. Her posture was that of a beast trying to make itself smaller; she hunched her shoulders and kept her arms at her sides. The silence in the room began to grow in magnitude, kept at bay only by the faint clicking of her footpaws-

Of her… um…

Welking averted his gaze as nonchalantly as he could manage; it was rude to stare at disabled beasts. Instead, he focused on fighting the silence, by slurping at his stew as loudly and obnoxiously as he could. A quick glance told him that it was working; or, at the very least, she didn't seem to be shrinking any more than before.

She sat down next to him and silently tucked into her food. Although she didn't seem any more depressed, she was still clearly feeling awkward about socializing. The silence was starting to affect the mood of the room; even Abzel had slowed down considerably in her voracious consumption. Oh well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

After a little while, Katrina realized that the stoat next to her had gone silent. She looked over at him, mildly alarmed, only to find him staring at her with a blank, wide-eyed expression. To-literally-top off the ridiculous look, his bowl of stew was now balancing perfectly on top of his head. She broke into a giggling fit, then looked back at him with a much brighter countenance. He smiled back at her, relieved to see her finally appear happy.

With that, the tension in the room dissolved. Abzel picked up speed again, shoveling her food partly into her mouth and partly into her vittles sack. Seamus took a few bites as well, then commented, "I see you're enjoying your father's sewing kits. Did you make that hat yourself?"

"No," Katrina replied between mouthfuls of stew, "I found it in one of the storerooms."

"Ah yes, I do recall the master's hat phase. Did the feathers come with it?"

"No, I dyed those myself. I couldn't find any accents to match the color scheme I had going..."

Welking began to drift off in thought. Seamus had started a topic Katrina was clearly interested in, and she cheered up considerably after that. That was good; she needed a bit of cheer. Or, she looked like she needed it. You could never tell with some beasts. Sometimes they were stronger than they looked.

Welking stopped, and wondered how he could possibly have known that. His confusion was brought to a halt, though, when he realized that the conversation was angling towards involving him.

"...suppose it could be covered up with a bit of lace." Seamus turned to Welking. "What do you think, Welking?"

"Um." Hellgates, Welking, is that all you can say? He cleared his throat and gave it another effort. "It reminds me of a corsair outfit. Just, like, add an eyepatch, a few gold earrings, and…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence but confident that the thought had been conveyed well enough.

Seamus wiped off his mouth with his napkin. "Her father has forbidden her from getting piercings until she has reached twenty seasons."

Welking started taking large spoonfuls of stew to wash out the taste of footpaw in his mouth, and fervently wished he were back in the pile on the beach.

Abzel, oblivious to the mental chaos around her, chose that moment to speak up. "How are you doing with your kata?"

Katrina stopped eating, or at least slowed dramatically. "Great… but how did you know I was doing kata?"

"Your pawwraps look like the training wraps I used back in the Tassa Province, before I signed on with the crew." She took another spoon of stew, blind to the astonished expression on Katrina's face. "Isn't it, like, traditional to take those off when you're not fighting?"

Katrina shot a bewildered look at Seamus, who just nodded. That calmed her down a bit, and she reached down to undo the pawwraps.

Welking saw the glint of metal, and began watching with a keen interest. The thick pawwraps gradually came off to reveal a pair of metal paws. For a moment, he tried to convince himself that they were just gauntlets, but they were riddled through with hollow points, and no fur showed underneath. He looked away, determined not to be rude if he could manage it.

Abzel, as usual, was far less tactful. "Whoa, peglegs _and_ metal paws!" Everyone turned to look at her; Katrina with a mildly ashamed expression, Welking with a stern glare, and Seamus with a blank face. This had no effect on her, as she continued with, "Where did you get them?"

Seamus set down his utensils. "That question touches on quite a loaded subject, Abzel."

"Oh. Sorry." Thankfully, even Abzel wasn't so socially clueless as to ask after that.

"No matter. You were bound to learn at some point; might as well get it out of the way."

* * *

"When Master Charlemagne first found Katrina, she was grievously injured, and on the brink of death. He managed to coax her back, but her limbs were unsalvageable and had to be amputated. Charlemagne was too invested to let such an impediment stop her from living a full life, and immediately set to work fashioning a full set of prosthetic replacements for her missing limbs. As he has explained them to me, they connect directly to the severed nerves in her amputation sites, converting electrical impulses from those nerves into input for the mechanics in the artificial limbs."

Welking contemplated that for a moment. "So she was adopted?"

"That is correct."

"So Charlemagne might not be a fox?"

"It is a distinct possibility."

"So then what is he?"

"If Charlemagne has chosen not to reveal himself yet, then I must trust his judgement in that. He has always advocated letting actions speak for a beast, rather than appearances."

"Ah." Welking started silently thinking again. "Abzel… how old are you?"

"Wrbf?" Abzel gave a slight start at the question, mouth still full of food.

"You said you trained in kata in the Tassa Province before you joined the crew. That would mean you learned Shuan-Ge. Doesn't that take seasons to master?"

"How do you even know that? You were hit in the head by the _ground!_"

"Look, I don't know, okay! Argh!" Welking grabbed his head and groaned in frustration. "I remember all these pointless facts, but I didn't even know my own name before you told me!"

"Well, you're wrong, in any case. Shuan-Ge isn't that hard to master, if you get a good teacher. Learned from somerat in Tassa Province for about eight seasons; reached eighth-level kata in unarmed, eighth-level in form weapons, and fifth-level in special weapons."

Seamus looked up with the most surprised expression his face could muster (that is to say, eyes that looked slightly more awake than normal). "My, now that is impressive. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the standard kata scale caps at tenth level?"

"That's right!"

"Well then." Seamus stood up and started clearing dishes from the table. "If you don't mind, I do believe I've found our upcoming itinerary. Master Charlemagne will be hosting a ceremony for the dead of the Yalza Flitchaye in a little over a week. As long as you're not opposed, you could offer a Shuan-Ge demonstration for Katrina's sake some time between now and then."

He reached for Welking's tray, but halted when the stoat stabbed his fork downward to block his paw. "Hold on," said Welking. "Something's not adding up here. You said Katrina's prosthetics were mechanical? But they're too compact for anything strong enough, and I've never even heard of 'nerve signals', or whatever you called them."

"Yeah," Abzel said, "and what about all the flameless lights? And what are these tables even made of?" She knocked on the textured white surface, producing a thin, hollow tapping sound unlike any wood or metal. "And how does someone who nearly lives alone even afford to make a front door that big, let alone the size of the fortress inside?"

"And why did Charlemagne sound so much heavier than a badger in a suit of armor should? Every step he took shook the ground."

The narrator would like to amend the previous comment about Seamus's most surprised expression possible, as the expression he was currently showing was far more shocked than even that. He looked back and forth between the two, then sighed and slumped back into his chair. "Charlemagne was right about not taking beasts at face value. You two are far more observant than you let on."

They both muttered excuses; "Comes with the age," "Got a lot of room," "You know how it is."

"Well, I suppose everything will come to light eventually. First of all, to head off any more asking, no, I will not be revealing Master Charlemagne's species; if for no other reason, because you'll no doubt find out on your own eventually anyway. That being said, you do deserve an explanation for the rest.

"Welking, do you recall what I told you when we entered the dining hall? You are an Aspect, a beast split between life and death. You are functionally immortal, and were you ever to die, you would be reincarnated. I will trust Master Charlemagne to fill you in on the details of that, but it is besides the point.

"Now, each Aspect has a unique ability, a domain of power that they represent. Were I to hazard a guess I would say that, based on your ability to recover from grievous injuries in seconds, and return from death itself in a mere few days, you may be the Aspect of Growth, or somesuch. You possess the ability to accelerate your own growth and recovery, and possibly that of other beasts.

"But I digress. Master Charlemagne is an Aspect as well as you are, and his domain-would either of you care to guess?"

"Metal! Light glowy thingies! Uhh, bugs!" Abzel immediately began spouting a wave of nonsense suggestions, each one quickly shot down by Seamus with a shake of his head.

Welking rested his head on a paw and considered the question more carefully. Then he raised his paw. "Mechanics?"

Seamus made a motion somewhere between nodding and shaking his head. "No, but close. Think wider."

"Technology?"

"Correct. Master Charlemagne presides over the domain of technology and innovation. With but a glance, he knows the inner workings of any machine. He can assemble from scratch what most beasts would require years to build even the equipment to produce. His mind is a library of intricate blueprints and complex calculations. He has mapped out the far reaches of the stars, the intricate systems of the body, and the most basic building blocks of creation, all in the pursuit of advancement."

"Woah!" Abzel shouted. Then she leaned in closer and whispered quite audibly, "Can he move stuff with his mind?"

"Yes, though in the thirty seasons I have lived here, I have observed him doing that only twice, to demonstrate to me and Katrina, respectively. It is not something that he is proud of; he considers assembling with his mind to be 'the easy way,' a route beyond the reach of ordinary beasts. He prefers to work with his paws and the tools he has created, and leave miracles to the gods."

"But, by the same logic, wouldn't his perfect capacity for schematics be 'the easy way'?" Welking pointed out.

"Indeed, but those schematics can be written down and shared; his technopathy cannot. He desires a situation wherein he is, near as makes no difference, the equal of his peers."

"Hence the secrecy about his species?" Welking asked pointedly.

"Exactly."

A pounding of metal sounded from the hallway, then Charlemagne's helmeted head peered into the room. "Welking, do you have a moment?"

Welking looked at Seamus, then back at Charlemagne. "I guess. What do you need?"

* * *

**ZOMG rushed ending! But seriously, I wanted this next scene to happen at some point, and didn't have a clear picture of the ending to this conversation, so I opted to cut it off.**

**Next chapter will feature Ripfang (if I can figure out how I want the scene to play out) and/or Smack (if I can remember where I left him). Ranga and Mayton are, luckily, going to have a very uneventful journey for the time being.**

**Finally, I have a request. If you've made it this far, and you aren't completely sick of the concept yet, I would greatly appreciate some review and criticism. If I've missed anything major, or left any inconsistencies or plot holes lying around, I'd love to be able to fix them before they cause major issues. EDIT: Plot holes have caused major issues. Fixed a few grammatical errors and edited for consistency; amazingly, this turned out to be one of the least broken chapters thus far in my editing spree.**


	11. Ch 11: Press Block

**Chapter 11: Press Block to Avoid Grievous Injury**

After the altercation with the Flitchaye, Ripfang's crew experienced a rather peaceful journey. They were still leagues off course, but they were gradually drawing closer to Redwall, and their eventual prize.

After a few days, as the sun neared its zenith, they passed a modest house, deep in the forest. Though it would not matter to the crew for long, the house was occupied by a small family of moles, a father, mother, and two daughters, who made their way through life harvesting the berries and herbs in the region and tending to their humble property with care.

As is the case with many such stories, I'm telling you all this background information so you'll feel remorseful when they all die.

Naturally, Vrox was the first to smell the beasts hiding inside. He gestured at the house and nodded to Ripfang. Confused, Ripfang just nodded back. Vrox took this as permission, and loped off to the hovel. With a blood-curdling growl, he shouldered through the door and disappeared from sight. Ripfang waited a few moments, considering the ramifications of this unexpected action, then decided to find out for himself what was going on.

He motioned to his crew to hold position, then padded over to the house, an expression of mixed boredom and irritation masking his curiosity and mild trepidation. He reached the doorframe just in time to hear an anguished cry escape from the mother mole, before Vrox plunged his sword through her heart (and, due to the flat tip, most of her upper torso as well). The rest of the family lay slain around the cabin; not one was spared from the fox's hungered rampage.

Vrox turned and grinned at Ripfang, blood coating his muzzle; it seemed he hadn't even bothered to finish the hunt before partaking in the prey. Ripfang met his crazed expression with an annoyed glare. "I did not authorize this behavior," said the Rat Admiral. "This is murder."

"Oh please!" laughed Vrox. "Like you are any better, _pirate._"

"I do not murder. I operate cleanly and with integrity, without needlessly spilling the blood of creatures that have done nothing to me."

"And yet you take no issue when I slaughter Flitchaye?"

Ripfang narrowed his eyes. "The Flitchaye are cannibalistic, primitive creatures that lash out violently at any and all outsiders. They are not worthy of comparison to civilized creatures."

"Ha! You think yourself some moral paragon! At least I do not discriminate between preybeasts."

Ripfang scowled, but remained silent. Vrox returned to cleaning his kills. After some time, he heard the rat pad silently out of the cabin. He grinned to himself. Coward!

Vrox finished the cleaning and wiped the blood off his implements. He scoured the house for anything useful: blades, valuables, cooking spices and garnishes, and so on. He took one last look at his handiwork, stepped through the doorframe, and stopped.

Ripfang was waiting outside, one paw held up in an open-pawed gesture. Behind him, roughly a score of archers stood with arrows nocked and bows aimed directly at Vrox.

Ripfang began speaking with an eerily level tone. "Your actions today spit in the face of our code of honor. Your senseless killing is an affront to this crew and a detriment to your species, and it is my honorable duty to ensure you do not slay another innocent creature."

He clamped his paw into a fist, and Vrox only had time for one last look of absolute rage before a flurry of arrows sent his body to the ground. Several of the archers broke off from the group, collecting the valuables he had removed from the house, while others set about rigging the house to burn.

Ripfang pointed at the fallen fox. "Remove his haversacks and put them in the house, then deposit his body in the woods."

"Shouldn't we just burn him with the hut?" Switch asked. As one of the youngest members of the crew, and as a disabled lady, she tended to get away with questioning orders far more often than the other crew members.

"No," Ripfang replied. "He does not deserve the honor of a funeral pyre. Leave his corpse for the scavengers." He stamped off, still seething with undirected rage.

Evil-dog looked up in Switch's general direction. "He sounds much calmer."

"No kidding. That crazy badger got to him a lot more'n he's letting on."

* * *

'Crazy Legs' Agate had, in Smack's mind, the most absurd home he'd ever seen. The abode consisted of two stories, although the second floor was only half the width of the first. The entire first floor, and the leftover space above not occupied by the second floor, consisted of a single open room. On one side of the massive room, a mirror spanned the entire wall; the other was lined with racks upon racks of weights, dumbbells, and - strangely, for such a peaceful city - weapons.

Agate stood in the middle of the room, thoroughly thrashing a training dummy with a quarterstaff. The same finesse she put into her footwork during the dance competition was perfectly translated over to her current combat; she leapt around the dummy with a fatal sort of grace, striking blows from multiple angles in quick succession.

When she noticed Smack and Amity in the doorway, she leapt backward, executing a quick turn in the air, and assumed a neutral stance. "Didn't see you there, Amity. Who's this?"

Smack meandered over to peruse a shelf filled with practice swords. "Just a friend of Mako's who's been waylaid here for a bit," Amity replied.

"Well, any friend of his is…" Agate put a claw to her chin. "Well, at the very least, someone to pay attention to."

"No clue what Mako saw in him, though."

"I heard that!" Smack yelled. Amity only sniggered in reply.

Agate laughed a bit too. "Well, in any case, he's-" Her ear twitched, and her attention snapped over to Smack "Watch out!" she shouted as she launched forward, jumping athletically over Amity's head as she went. Smack looked at her with a bewildered expression, the sword that he had removed from the back of the shelf still in his paws.

She landed behind him, then grabbed him by the arm and flipped him over her shoulder. Then she leapt back, as the now unbalanced shelf came crashing to the ground right where he had been standing. The force of it hitting the ground shook the other shelves, sending various pieces of equipment toppling to the ground.

Smack rolled off his stomach and sat up, one paw cupped over his bleeding nose. "How did you…"

"That shelf has had issues with balance for a while, mostly due to an unsupported floorboard under one of the front legs," Agate explained. "I've managed to mitigate the issue for the longest time by putting the heavier items towards the back, opposite the poorly supported leg, but it's only ever been a temporary solution. In fact, I have a contractor coming over tomorrow to fix it. Gods only know how you managed to remove the one item that would totally imbalance it."

"But how did you know it was going to fall _right then?_"

Agate fixed him with a dead gaze. After a few seconds of measured silence, she responded, "There are some questions best left unasked-"

"Agate, FOR FUR'S SAKE, stop giving him the runaround!" Amity yelled.

That alone was enough to break Agate's cold expression, and she fell into a fit of laughter as Smack looked on at a loss for words. "I'm just having some fun with ya, kid." She held out a paw to help him up, which he gladly accepted. "To tell you the truth, I've been training in observation, in addition to more common workouts. Hearing is difficult to practice, but not completely impossible, and I've gotten quite good at listening to the sounds most beasts would miss."

Now, we'll step back a few seconds, because something very important was happening outside of everybeast's observation. The shockwave from the shelf hitting the ground caused many other objects to tumble down along the equipment wall. A barbell and a dagger crashed to the ground, and a quarterstaff landed between them with one end wedged under the dagger. Over time, a dumbbell sitting above rolled slowly to the edge, then tipped off and fell on the raised end of the quarterstaff. The makeshift lever pivoted on the dumbbell, tossing the dagger into the air and straight at Smack's face.

At the last second, Agate shot out a paw and caught the blade. The cloth wrap around her paw protected her from getting cut, and while she hadn't the strength to completely stop the projectile, her intervention turned what would have been a grievous injury for Smack into a moderate backpaw blow to the nose."I've also been working on my peripheral vision," Agate added.

Smack cupped a paw over his once again bleeding nose. He let out a string of profanities, which soon descended into unintelligible muttering.

"Ah, don't get too worked up over it," Agate chided. "Coulda been a lot worse." She then noticed the shield that had rolled off to the corner of the room. "Hey, that yours?" she asked, pointing at the discarded tool. Smack nodded, and retrieved the shield. "Hey, since it looks like the world itself is trying to kill you, why don't I show you a thing or two about using that?"

"Erm… yeah, sure. Not like I've got anything better to do here." The confusing prophecy that he had received with the shield weighed heavily in his mind, but there was no way he could actually fulfill it. Not with the world trying to kill him, anyway.

"Well, let's start with what you can already do." Agate selected a long sword-like device from the wall. "Back where I come from, they call this a 'bota'. It's a few pieces of thick reed, formed into the shape of a sword; they use it for contact training when there's still a chance of contact." She passed it to Amity, then turned to Smack. "Right, Amity's going to give you a few simple strikes. Try to block them as best you can. Begin!"

Immediately Amity was away, hacking and slashing with the fury of a moderate spring breeze. Though her attacks were slow, she had the advantage in height - namely, that Smack had trouble getting his shield low enough to block - her strategy leaned towards the unpredictable, and every strike she landed stung like a whip.

Finally, Agate called Amity off. "I have to ask, are you even trying to block?"

Smack grimaced, cradling his knee. "Of course I am! You think I like getting hit?"

Agate cupped her paws over her snout and stared at the ceiling. "Fffh, okay, we got a lot to work on." She took her paws off her nose and rubbed then together, then laced her pawfingers and pushed her palms outward. "Right, let's get started."

* * *

By the end of the day, Smack was exhausted and could barely feel his legs anymore. Despite that, he felt more accomplished than he had in a long while. The day had been entirely occupied by training, and for the first time he felt like he'd actually learned something meaningful.

He wasn't the only one in high spirits, as the three of them exited the studio; Agate had an exhilarated smile plastered on her face. "Man, I haven't taught kata in seasons! Hey, how long are you in town?"

"Well, my crew's back in Mossflower, and I don't expect they'll be picking me up, so unless somebeast else lets me sail with 'em, I'm here for good."

"Great! Meet me here day after tomorrow, and we'll get started on some more advanced first-level stuff." She patted him roughly on the elbow (she would have patted his shoulder, if she didn't have to fully extend her arm up to do so). "I get the feeling you're gonna go far, kid! You've got almost all the basic kata down in one day; I haven't seen that kind of dedication since before I moved here!"

With that final compliment, she turned and headed back inside her studio. Amity grabbed Smack's paw. "C'mon, I'll take you to my place. Tomorrow we can talk to some of the city officials and find you a way to earn your keep."

Smack scratched his chin. "Earn my keep?"

"Yeah. We have a monetary system here, to organize trade and keep things running smoothly. Barter doesn't work so well in trade centers; you need a standardized measurement of value that won't change too much over time." She pulled out a pouch of coins and held up a few for inspection. "You've got cubes, sickles, and bergs; 100 cubes make a sickle and 50 sickles make a berg. Sickles are worth about a day's salary; it differs depending on what job you get, but even the lowest of jobs will net you over 90 cubes a day."

"And everybeast uses these here?"

"Yeah; standard currency around the Artygian Ocean."

"The what?"

Amity gave him a shocked look. "The ocean. That Sampetra is right in the middle of."

"I've never heard that name before."

"Then what the hell do you call it?"

Smack scratched the back of his head. "Just, 'the Western Ocean', I guess."

Amity stared at him blankly. "...well that's just plain lazy."

"What the fur is 'Artygian' supposed to mean, anyway?"

"Gelida told me she started using it ironically to mock a pirate 'king' by the name of Artygos, who had claimed that the ocean was his domain. It caught on eventually, and now everybeast calls it that."

"So, I guess Gelida lost?"

Amity laughed quietly, but cast a furitive glance around. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Heh, yeah, but keep your voice down if you're gonna say stuff like that. Gelida's a bit unstable at the best of times, and she wouldn't take kindly to that notion if she got into one of her moods."

"Don't worry; I won't tell!" The new voice stopped them both in their tracks. They slowly looked up to see one of the batfolk watching them with interest from the rooftops. The strange creature took to all fours and crawled down the wall like some sort of lizard, pushing itself up to its hindpaws as soon as it arrived at ground level. "Ain't seen a foxy round here in ages! 'Course, I seen you all day, so mebbe it hasn' been that long!"

Smack looked down at the batling, which only stood slightly taller than Amity. His muzzle was seemingly permanently twisted into a childish grin, exposing a set of misaligned and chipped teeth. He was dressed in a simple pair of reddish-brown overalls, leaving ample space for the wings sprouting from his back, in addition to his normal limbs. A tool belt filled with random implements hung loosely at his hips; presumably, it didn't connect in the back, due to his wings, and had to be attached to the overalls themselves.

"You've been watching me… all day?"

"'Course I have! How else d'you esspect me ta do my job?"

"What, are you gonna tell the Queen I've been learning how to use a shield all day?"

"'Scuse? Naw, I tole ya I won't gon' tell; 'sides, dat ain't even my job!" With that he procured an object from behind his back. "I'm an 'abadasher!"

The item he produced was a hat, the kind of hat that warranted its own paragraph of description. If a bicorn had two points and a tricorn three, this was closely related to a quadricorn. However, the crown rose out of the center much like the "stovepipe" hats of Riften royalty. The base was a rich, deep black fabric, accented by red bands that swirled around the high cylindrical crown in a subtle pattern that closely resembled random placement. A pair of bright red feathers graced the left side; their hue was highly indicative of some sort of dye, as that tone of red couldn't possibly be natural. To top of the whole ensemble, about halfway up the crown on what would be the front corner of the hat was a polished jet crystal, set in a frame of red leather (also probably dyed).

The batling wasted no time in fluttering up and placing the hat on Smack's head. Amazingly, it was a perfect fit; even his ears were accommodated for, with small holes hidden by the curled brim allowing them to sit comfortably to the sides of the massive headgear. "Um, thanks?" Smack said, caught off guard by the gaudy accessory.

"No probbem! I like makin' hats, I just cann'elp it when I sees a new beast, I gotta get a hat on 'em!"

Smack took off the hat to inspect it. "Well, it's certainly…" Okay, it was a major fashion disaster, that much was indisputable. But it did have a certain sort of ingenuity to it, a flair of creativity. The seam work was well done; assuming it was cared for, this hat could last for generations. Every edge was neat and well planned; every ribbon was attached diligently on both sides. The embroidered pattern on the leather frame had been perfectly balanced, and that jet was flawlessly cut.

And this little batling had made it for him without being asked, for no other incentive than that he wanted to do it. He had poured so much effort into it, in less than a day's time, simply because he wanted Smack to have a hat. Nobeast would have done that for him back in the horde; Hellgates, even his dozens of families from his childhood seasons weren't this generous.

It brought a tear to his eye and a smile to his face. "I love it. It's amazing." He secured the hat back on his brow. "And who do I have to thank for this?"

"ME!"

Okay, could have been worded better. "Yes, but what's your name?"

The batling suddenly became very interested in tapping his claws together. "Oh, um, I ne'er had a name before. Ne'er needed one." He tapped his chin. "Uh, you can call me, um, um, oh!" He assumed a heroic stance, fists on his hips and chin held high to the side. "ZARGOTHRAX!"

Smack stared, processing the name. "Um, what-"

"Okbye!" Zargothrax turned around, put his claws to the wall, and shot up to the rooftops and out of sight. Smack gave a bewildered glance to Amity, who merely shrugged.

* * *

**Fun Fact: Mercury was used in the production of felt in 18th and 19th century England. As felt was one of the most common materials for hats of the time, hatters (or haberdashers) were frequently subject to mercury poisoning. One of the prevalent symptoms of mercury poisoning is dementia, and the association of this condition with hatters led to the phrase "mad as a hatter", and possibly the inspiration for the Wonderland character as well. The More You Know!**

**Now, as for this chapter… Eh, might as well say it. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. Everything here happened exactly the way I've laid it out, but I'm still not liking the way it came across. I'm not the type to avoid writing in absurd situations that will only make sense with information from way later in the story, but this chapter still felt a bit too forced in my opinion. Nevertheless, I've waited too long to put out the next chapter, so here it is in all its unexplained glory.**


	12. Ch 12: Still Alive

**Chapter 12: Still Alive**

After another twisting journey through the increasingly logical hallways of Charlemagne's fortress, Welking found himself in a small white room with Charlemagne and Katrina. Okay, maybe it wasn't all that small, but Charlemagne's towering armored form made it look positively tiny. "So, what are we testing?"

"A simple comparison of weaponry. Stand inside the circle there, please."

Charlemagne pointed to a red dot at the end of a short corridor off one side of the room. Welking obliged, though somewhat pensive about the explanation given. "Okay, but why's she here?"

"Katrina has accompanied us because her aim is exceptional, and a good aim will be required for an adequate comparison." Charlemagne disappeared from sight, leaving only Katrina visible in the small section of the room Welking could view from within the corridor. In less time than it took to write that last sentence, he returned with a bow, a quiver with a single arrow, and two rodlike objects Welking couldn't identify. He handed the bow and quiver to Katrina, then placed the other objects just outside of sight. Then he stepped back a few paces, and procured a small board and a thin black rod (most likely a pen, although he didn't seem to have an inkwell) from a slot in the wall. "Katrina, his left shoulder, please."

In all honesty, even at this range Welking could have dodged the shot. But he was lost in thought, considering the nature of Charlemagne's writing implements, and the danger of a bow being drawn in front of him eluded his mind for so long he only had enough time to widen his eyes as the arrowhead sank into his shoulder. He fell to one knee, specifically his left one so he wouldn't bump the arrow and drive it in further, and clutched at the shaft.

Katrina's expression immediately switched to panic, and she yanked a white bag off the wall and ran to his side. She carefully opened the wound enough to extract the arrowhead without further damage, then opened the bag to procure a small cylinder with an extended tip. "Biofoam; this'll stop the-"

At that point, though, there was nothing to stop. The blood flow had been practically nonexistent from the start, and muscle and skin tissue that had jumped forward nearly immediately had almost finished bridging the gap. A thin trickle of liquid pushed out foreign material as the wound finished closing, and the scarring and swelling began to fade.

Charlemagne cleared his throat. "On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being nonexistent and ten being excruciating, how would you rate the severity of your pain?"

Welking held his shoulder still; despite the immediate recovery, the wound still bore traces of his prior pain. "Ugh… seven."

"Only seven? Interesting." He made a few notes on the board. "And do you have any other comments to add?"

"You shot me… wid an arrow…" The statement didn't seem to necessitate any punctuation beyond trailing off; the sentiment was something that an exclamation couldn't quite express.

"This is true, at least in the figurative sense. I chose you as a subject because your supernatural healing rate will allow for proper comparative testing without prohibitive recovery time or irreparable damage." He gestured to a chair just outside the corridor. "Have a seat and let the damage finish recovering."

Welking pushed himself up to his footpaws and flexed his shoulder. "Atshully, I think I'm good for round two."

"If you insist." Charlemagne picked up one of the foreign devices he'd placed out of sight. This one consisted of a metal rod, which appeared to be hollow, with a polished wooden chunk off one side like some kind of mace that had gotten itself backwards. The point where the two met had a few metal curls and divots on its surface; from this distance Welking couldn't identify their purpose. Decoration?

"This is a Riften Royal House Constable's rifle. Born of the constant war effort between the Royal House and the Kotimaa Shrew Union, the rifle is a ranged weapon that utilizes the destructive force of a tool commonly known as stormpowder to fire a small round known as a bullet out the barrel. A single shot from this will most likely paralyze a beast for life, and that's just assuming it misses vitals. If it hits anything a beast actually needs, well, _hasta nunca._ We can only count our blessings that their war keeps them too preoccupied to cross the Kiviseina Mountain Range into the Northlands, and bring this weapon too."

"And yer gonna shoot me with it."

"Naturally. Well, figuratively. Katrina?" He handed off the weapon and picked up his noteboard again. "Whenever you're ready."

Katrina put the wooden part of the rifle to her shoulder and aimed the barrel at Welking. This time aware that he was going to be shot, he stood upright and braced himself. Still, the report of the rifle when Katrina finally fired was enough to make him wince again. Then came the pain.

The bullet that came forth from the rifle, almost too fast for him to see even looking directly at the rifle, dug into his shoulder with gusto. He felt it blast through his shoulderblade, tear at least a few tendons, and then fly out the back, all before his reaction to the initial explosion was complete. He fell to the ground again, letting out a sound somewhere between an anguished scream and a primal roar, and clutched at the wound as he rolled about in pain. This time there was blood, and quite a lot of it.

Katrina was more resolute this time, knowing that attempted medical attention would only mean contamination of sterilized supplies. Charlemagne was once again visibly unfazed by the events before him, watching with a posture of purely scientific indifference. "On a scale from zero to-"

"Nine!"

He marked down the assessment. "I see; 'things can always get worse'. And would you like to revise your analysis of the arrow shot?"

"Six! Oh dear gods in heaven, that hurts!"

"Please feel free to continue swearing; personal studies have determined that it tends to mitigate pain."

Welking stood up shakily, taking a few deep breaths. "No, no, I think I'm good… I'll take that chair now…" He stumbled out of the corridor, a trail of blood attempting to follow but promptly stopping when the source finally closed up again. "Oh gods, I can feel the bones…"

"That's to be expected, seeing as some of them are still in the corridor rotting. Their sudden reappearance is bound to feel quite unsettling to your system."

Welking eased into the chair, wincing at the sudden rippling feeling he felt across his chest and arm. Had he brought it up to Charlemagne, he would have learned that the force of the bullet affected more than just the initial impact zone, exerting itself on bodily fluids across a significant area of his internals. Had he been an ordinary beast, the hydrostatic shock would have caused severe damage in addition to the original wound. Of course, had he been an ordinary beast, the rupture of the large artery leading into his arm would have most likely killed him well before he'd have to worry about anything like that.

While he waited for the shaking feeling under his skin to stop, he stared at Katrina's legs with a curious, and not at all respectful, look. (Seriously, it makes beasts uncomfortable when you stare.) The pointed prosthetics were reminiscent of peg legs that he'd seen on a few corsairs out on the Western Ocean (another sourceless memory he didn't stop to question), but how she managed to stay balanced on them eluded him entirely. And with his stunted memory, he probably stood no chance of figuring it out any time soon…

Oh. Well, just use your mouth, ya jeenyus.

"How d'you walk?"

Jeenyus.

Katrina gave him a funny look. "I just put one paw in front of the other." Holding a straight face clearly wasn't one of her strong points; she held the confused expression for about half a second before breaking into a wide grin.

Welking bent over in a fit of sniggering, one paw over his face. "Okay, yeh, that wasn' the best choice of words. What I meant was, how d'you stay up on those pegs? Seems like it'd be hard ta balance."

"Yeah, no, that's what I thought you meant. Well, it's kinda like… well, have you ever seen those little toys with the disk in the center that spins and makes it stand up?"

"Uh, no, don't think I ever have. 'Course, my memory's not that good, but even then I don' think a pirate crew would find somethin' like that."

"Oh. Well, then I don't really know how to explain it to you, cuz that's what it's based on. And actually, beyond that, I don't really understand it much myself."

"I've showed you the blueprints multiple times," Charlemagne said.

"Doesn't mean I understand them, Dad."

"True." He turned to Welking. "The prosthetics are based on auto-balancing gyroscopic stabilizers connected to a nerve signal interpreter. The internal processors automatically calculate the required movement of the internal gyroscopes to maintain comfortable movement even at a full dash, and support the body at as low as 5 degrees angle from the ground, and as low as 15 degrees on one leg. The tip contains morphing patterned microsurfaces designed to increase traction against relatively smooth surfaces, allowing better traction on the ground, along with traversal of difficult slopes."

Welking had maintained the same attentive expression throughout the entirety of Charlemagne's explanation. He continued to hold it for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, I unnerstood about haffa th' words yeh jus' said, and I don't think it's the half that yeh were tryin' to communicate."

"Don't worry, there won't be a test. It took me three years to perfect that design; I wouldn't expect you to learn it in an afternoon."

"Years?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." Charlemagne shifted awkwardly in his armor. "Years are a time measure used by several communities of more longevous beasts south of Portus Cale. They represent the full cycle of four seasons, eighteen lunar cycles, or approximately 554 days."

"Ah." Welking stood up, the mending in his shoulder feeling complete. "Well, I'd ask what 'longevous' means, but I don' want another word come up that I'd need defined. Let's just get back to shootin' me."

"You're surprisingly calm about this."

"Yeh, well, way I see it, I'm heaven knows how deep unnerground, in a tiny room with a beast twice my size that wears armor around like a second skin, an' a marksbeast that c'n shoot me in th' exact same spot twice with two completely different weapons. What'm I gonna do, run away?"

"You could just ask us not to shoot you."

Welking stopped, dumbfounded surprise on his face. "I hadn' considered that."

"The fight or flight response is not designed to assume a threat will stop when asked."

"Well, I foun' out about somethin' way more deadly than an arrow. Long as I'm learning stuff, let's keep doin' this." He stepped back into the corridor, taking his place in the red circle again.

"Hopefully this one won't hurt as much." Charlemagne picked up the other foreign object - most likely some kind of rifle, judging by its similarity to the last weapon - and handed it to Katrina. "Left shoulder again, please." Katrina nodded, raised the device to her shoulder, and fired.

Welking hissed through his teeth. "Eugh, that… didn't hurt nearly as much. About a three, I think."

Charlemagne marked it down. "The round is laced with an F-type sedative. You may wish to lay down before the toxins kick in."

"Whuh?..." Without warning, a wave of exhaustion and nausea hit him. He held a paw up to his head and stumbled forward, eliciting another panicked response from Katrina, who ran forward to help him. He never felt himself fall into her arms; he was already asleep when she caught him.

* * *

If time passed while he was asleep, he didn't notice; when his eyes opened again he found himself still in the same room, lying on the ground with Katrina at his side. "Dad, he's waking up again," she informed her father.

Who wasn't in the room.

He was about to question her sanity out loud, when the sound of slightly rushed, metal-shrouded pawfalls echoed from outside the door. Shortly, Charlemagne's helmeted head appeared in the doorway, followed by the rest of his body. "Interesting. Your immune system must bear the same natural porcilivity to… pro-cli-vi-ty. Your immune system must bear the same natural proclivity to speedy recovery as the rest of your body." He put a gauntleted paw up to his face. "It's one thing to know these words, and another thing to say them correctly. My, that's embarrassing."

Welking climbed up to his feet, for at least the third time since he'd met Charlemagne. "Juss a bit." He flashed a grin. "Even th' great warlord is flawed."

"Now that's not fair," Charlemagne chided, waggling a pawfinger. "I'm not a warlord; I'm an engineer."

"Sure y'are." Welking stretched, his maw opening in a tremendous yawn. "What'd ye put in that, uh, 'bullet', anyway?"

"F-type sedative." Charlemagne picked up the second rifle, which seemed designed more for function than form. He triggered a small mechanism on its surface (most likely the side, judging by the grip), causing a rectangle of metal to eject from the underside. This he then pulled out the rest of the way, then removing a small needle from the side that was deepest in the rifle. He passed this over for Welking to inspect. "A special concoction I derived from the formula for Flitchaye gas. The needle is designed to dispense it on contact, incapacitating a target and effectively removing them from combat nonlethally. Had I had this in my arsenal during the… beach incident, a lot of death could have been avoided."

Welking laughed mirthlessly, his gaze still focused on the needle. "Fightin's death. 'S just th' way it is."

"It shouldn't be. Not my fights. Technology is meant to help creatures, not slaughter them."

Welking looked up. "N' how's that workin' for yeh?" He set the needle down on the lone chair in the room. "That rifle there, the Royal House Whatever one, that's teknollergy. 'S death, too. Yer armor's death. That… hollow… thing, that's death."

Katrina spoke up. "He's got a point, Dad. You can't fight a clean war."

"Then I will redefine war so I can." He pointed at Welking. "You've held a Tether. You've seen the Void for yourself. Would you wish that on anybeast?"

Welking balked. "Erm, eh, well, if they deserved it…"

"And what would a beast have to do to deserve eternal torment, hm?"

"Um… well, I guess they'd hafta be really bad."

"How bad?" Charlemagne shifted. "For that matter, what is bad? Who defines evil?"

"Um…"

"Would you say that Cluny the Scourge, historical oppressor of Redwall, was evil?"

The memory of this historic figure came easily to Welking's mind, a lone fragment of his memory unedited by his injury. "Oh, well, yeah. I mean, from what I been told, he was horrid!"

"And what of the dictatorship he opposed in Portus Cale? What of the tyranny he fought to stop, the very same that he was forced to flee north from, with the beasts under his command? Did you know that, as a direct result of his actions, that dictatorship fell within a single generation?"

"Uh…"

"He came to Mossflower seeking a new home for his displaced resistance, not an empire of his own."

"So yer sayin' 'e was a goodbeast?"

"No, certainly not! He was as much a tyrant as the regime he opposed. What I'm trying to say is that we can't be judges of which beasts are good and which are evil. Our views are faulty and partial; we can't know every factor that motivates a beast to pursue its actions."

"Well, wait a tic. If Cluny really did anythin' good, why do beasts call 'im a villin?"

"Because he lost."

"Thass…" Welking scratched the underside of his jaw, nodding slightly. "'S a good point."

"You can't judge anybeast just on what you know of it, because what you don't know could change everything. And so, I do my best not to kill, if at all possible. Life is a sacred and beautiful thing, no matter what beast uses it."

"But life wouldn' be so presshus if there weren't an end."

"And I will not be that end. I won't be an instrument of death again." Charlemagne turned to the door. "Katrina, please put away the rifles and initiate residue de-contam. I don't know how much of Welking's fluids have stayed outside his body, but I don't want to find out the hard way." With that he left.

Welking was left blinking away surprise. "'Again'?" He glanced at Katrina, who simply shrugged. With no other recourse to answer his questions (and no clue how to get back to his room), he charged out the door in pursuit, one pawfinger raised. "Wait! I now 'ave addishernal questions!"

* * *

**Okay, maybe I'm overstepping a bit here, but it seems logical to me that a world that uses seasons as a standard measurement for long periods of time is going to require longer seasons as well. We'll just chalk the specifics up to divine (or natural) calibration, and try not to think about the immense orbital ramifications.**

**Also, yay, reimagining canon figures! Worth pointing out now that this was the source of the name for Portus Cale; one of Cluny's debated origins was Portugal, so I went digging in the etymology for a name that wasn't automatically associated with the real world. Apparently, Portus Cale means either "beautiful port" or "warm port"; we're not sure of the etymology of 'Cale' before Latin settlement of the region.**

**Credit to Jonathan Coulton for the song title.**


	13. Ch 13: Hedgevault

**Chapter 13: Hedgevault**

He may not have been running, but Charlemagne took quite large strides. Welking could only just run fast enough to reach him before he rounded the next corner. "Slow down! Hell's Teeth, yer fast!"

Charlemagne barely turned to acknowledge him. "If you are attempting again to sway my opinion, I will not hear it."

"Be kinda stupid to make yeh mad at me when I dunno where my room is."

Charlemagne stopped and turned to face the stoat. "Do the signs not help?"

"Yeh took me pretty deep inter yer little city here; none o' th' signs says anythin' 'bout the D Wing anymore, an' I ain't fermillier enuff with this place ter know where t'go."

"Ah. I suppose that would be an issue. Let's get you a map." He started walking again, but this time his strides had shrunk to a more manageable length for Welking to follow. "I don't wish to estrange potential friends, but death is a particularly sore spot for immortals."

"Wait, immordles?"

"Yes. We are trapped between worlds, as Aspects. Not fully in this world, but incapable of staying in the next."

"Oh yeah, I 'member Seamus sayin' somethin' 'bout that."

"Yes, and as a result I am fated to watch everybeast I care about pass away in time."

"Ouch."

"'Ouch' indeed. You can understand why I choose to disassociate myself from the world."

"Well, at least yeh still care. Seems t'me anybeast t' live that long would stop carin' about all the little critters that live and die like ants around 'em."

"I pray you've only just pictured that mindset, and not remembered it from before your injury."

Welking gulped, and looked away. "I… I dunno."

"Perhaps that is for the best. Whatever beast you were before has passed; now, you are free to live as you see fit." Charlemagne pointed to a door approaching on the left. "In here."

The sign by the door read "Copy Room". Inside, shelves of paper and writing utensils (Welking didn't see how they could be anything else) lined the right wall. To the left, several large boxes stood, making strange, high-pitched noises every so often but otherwise doing nothing of consequence.

Charlemagne stepped up to one and held up his arm. He tapped away at the air above with his other paw, as if marking out locations on an invisible map. Admittedly, it was not the best comparison, but it was the closest Welking could come to describing the armored beast's inexplicable actions.

Welking's assessment may have been quite close to the mark, though. After a few moments, the whirring box began churning out a glossy sheet of paper… or something. In truth, the sheet bore a curious texture that had the gloss of water, but strangely not the dampened appearance. He reached out to touch it, but stopped only a claw-length away, feeling the heat radiating from it. "How… what did you do to it?"

"It's coated in a specialized resin," Charlemagne explained. "This will prevent it from tearing and block stains, which will allow you to keep the map in good condition for far longer." He caught the map as it finished dispensing, held it up to inspect it, and handed it over to Welking.

The mesmerized stoat stared at the map in silence. The simple sheet confounded him, in more ways than one. On the surface (literally), the strange 'resin' that protected the map displayed a chemical ingenuity the lands surely had never seen before. The technique required to produce such clean lines as the map showed would have required an immense amount of care as well, not a few seconds within a whirring box. And the colors! Purple was a royal color, absurdly rare; why would anyone make a map for a _guest_ with it, especially when its only purpose on the map was to highlight a region no more important than the others? (_Mess Halls_, the label read. The plurality was somewhat suspect.)

But the more astonishing part of the map was what it conveyed: an underground fortress larger than it should have any right to be! The rooms in the D Wing ('Dormitory', the map said) numbered in the hundreds, at least, and they were mirrored on the other side (the 'Creation Wing') by an equally vast array of testing rooms with individually labelled purposes. And the final blow came from the simple title in the upper left corner: "_Hedgevault…_

"_Ground Floor._"

Welking felt himself sweating. "H...how big is this place?"

"In the event of a global emergency, I can house and feed the entire population of Mossflower indefinitely."

"...izzat so…" Welking pored over the map a bit longer. "Well…" He sighed, and rolled up the sheet. "Yeh mannaged t' confuddle me wid a sheet o' parchment. Congradjellations."

"Another satisfied customer."

"Yeah yeah, hillerious. Now, eh, I'm'na get some shuteye. See yeh tomorreh, ya crazy groundhog."

"Our paths roughly coincide, if you are heading to the dormitory wing. I'll walk with you for a bit."

"Sure, whatever yeh say. Yer house, after all." The two of them headed out the door in silence.

Shortly, Welking came to the realization that Charlemagne was staring at him. "Whassa matta? Yer lookin' at me like I grew a secon' snout."

"Well, in some senses of the word, you have. Somewhere during the testing process, you seem to have grown an accent."

Welking's eyes grew slightly wider. "Sov ob a nitch, so I 'ave."

"Perhaps it was a side effect of the trauma of multiple injuries, or a result of hydrostatic shock from the first rifle. In any case, while it doesn't seem to have affected your vocabulary, I have noticed a decline in your pronunciation of certain words, and a tendency towards certain grammatical idiosyncrasies commonly associated with low-ranking corsairs."

"Izzat-is that a problem?"

"Certainly not. It makes you a more distinct individual."

"Oh. Well 'en, I'm'na keep usin' it."

The silence resumed for a while. Then Charlemagne broke it again. "You said something that sounded amusingly similar to a profanity."

"'Sov ob a nitch'?"

"Yes. Why did you-"

"Nada clue."

"I figured as much."

Silence reigned again, as they continued along the (absurdly long) hall. Finally, they came to an intersection. "This is where we part ways, for now," said Charlemagne. "May you have a restful night."

The halls after that intersection felt empty, Welking noticed. Without Charlemagne's dominating presence, the ceiling seemed frighteningly distant. And even in the periods before where silence dominated the conversation, the weighty footsteps of his metal-encased form filled the gap; now, only Welking's much smaller claws tapped against the floor, bringing little relief from the heavy silence that now surrounded him. Fur, he could even hear his own breath echoing!

Quickly, the oppressive lack of stimulus began to get to him, and he increased his pace in an attempt to make it back to the relative comfort of his room. Left at the end of the corridor, entering D-Wing… right here, then left, first door on the… wait, what? He'd found himself back at the hall of doors, but the first door on the right was now D-02. He looked at the map again… "Rooms 01-32". Dammit, wrong end of the hall.

After another short walk, he reached the other end of the dormitory hall. In a brief moment of curiosity, he peeked out the other end and to the left. Just as the map said, several more halls lay parallel to this one, connected by the perpendicular halls at the ends. How long did it take to build this?

Alas, though his mind could sit and ponder this all night, his body hadn't that kind of endurance. He returned to the door of D-31. Turning the handle (the lever-latch design was curious, though he couldn't remember why), he pushed in the door and headed in. With great care to make sure it didn't make much noise, he slowly shut the door behind him, taking note of the sloped latch that slid in as it entered the doorframe. Abzel was already in her bed in the far corner, in a sleep deeper than a deadbeast. Funny, how she could be so excitable when awake, but so peaceful now. Too bad it was bound not to last; ah well.

_Time to wash my paws,_ he thought, then immediately wondered why. Vermin usually considered it bad luck to wash themselves; mostly due to old tales and legends of them washing away. But as he thought of this, he realized that he didn't want to consider himself vermin anymore. He was a new beast, after all; why not wash away the past?

He wandered toward the central column, set down the map on one of the small tables, and leaned over the inset washbasin. Three levers, or at least he assumed they were levers, were mounted behind it. He turned the one on the left all the way, which caused a deluge of water to pour from the middle one. Slightly panicked, he turned the lever back and cut of the stream. After a few seconds of consideration, he turned the lever again, but only halfway. The stream came forth again, but more controlled this time. He put a paw underneath…

_Hot!_ Surprised, he quickly withdrew the singed appendage. Why would anybeast want running water that hot? He'd heard, somewhere, that some beasts enjoyed warm baths, but for a simple paw washing?

Unless… He tried the right lever. The flow increased the same way it had before; he stuck his paw under it again, and found the temperature chilling, but a fair deal more tolerable. After a few moments of fiddling with the two, he found a balance that was just warm enough to feel cleansing, and didn't shower droplets all over the surrounding area. He scrubbed his paws carefully, availing himself of a soap bar that sat inside the floral bowl. Then he shut off the water flow, and considered how to dry off his hands. Wiping them on his garment would only make them dirty again, but there wasn't a towel in sight (which didn't make sense). In the end, he decided to simply shake off the remaining water.

In his previous inspection of the room, he'd quietly decided to use the bed in the near left corner. It sat next to the door, where he could see anybeast entering and still be close enough to defend the room if necessary; even though there was arguably no chance of somebeast reaching this room with any amount of malicious intent, the urge to protect what he considered his property remained. Conveniently, the bed was also opposite Abzel's. He turned to it now…

And found a rat sitting there, observing him with a mischievous grin on his face.

* * *

The grey-furred creature lounged on the corner of the bed, leaning back into the wall. His body, aside from his head and paws, was completely covered in a padded, form-fitting suit, on which several pouches of varying sizes had been mounted. A metal bracer covered his left paw, the blocky steel-toned design glinting in the dim light and contrasting with the beast's toned muscles. One of his eyes bore a similar glint; Welking shuddered at the disturbing conclusion this brought to him.

"Who're you?" Welking demanded.

"Me?" The strange rat unfolded his arms and placed one paw on his chest. "I'm just the custodian. Name's Alphonse; you can call me Al." He held out a paw.

"Yer another one o' Charlemagne's chariddy cases?"

"If that's what you want to call it."

"Well, yer on my bed, so don' esspect me t'be nice." Welking gripped the outstretched paw, giving it a firm shake. "Ain't Seamus th' steward 'ere?"

"Naw, he just manages the face of this place. I'm the one that takes care of the nitty-gritty, the behind-the-scenes stuff nobeast else can manage." He hopped off the bed. "Took the liberty of putting some fresh clothes for ya in the wardrobe; towels, too. I'll go ahead and take your current duds to the cleaners."

Welking opened up the wardrobe; sure enough, several clean outfits hung or sat neatly folded within. "How'd ye get my mesherments?"

"Very carefully," Al responded with a devious grin. "Nah, I'm kiddin' with ya. Truth be told, these outfits are one-size-fits-all, or most anyway."

"Ah." Welking picked out an outfit that looked sleepworthy, then quickly stripped off his grime-covered tunic and started getting dressed. The new trousers hung loose around his legs, with a simple cord sewn into the waistband to keep them up. The shirt was a plain affair, little more than a tunic with a high collar. Everything fit very loosely; perfect for sleepwear, but not something he'd be caught wearing out in the open. Then again, he could just use his old wear…

Oh yeah, except for the giant hole in the shoulder. And the tattered trousers. And the fact that it was covered with the wear and tear from countless seasons of use.

He looked up, and realized that Al was still staring at him. "Were you… watchin' me th' entire time?"

"You're covered in fur, bud. Nothing to see."

"I guess y've gotta point there." Welking motioned to the pile of grimy clothes. "Um, y'can burn those."

"No problem. I'll get your measurements off 'em too, so I can fab you up some new traveling duds."

"'Fab'?"

"Fabricate, bud. I'll run your measures through the assemblers, make you some well-fitting fibers." He sauntered over to the door, metal-plated tail weaving through the air behind him.

Metal-plated tail? Eh, probably the same neurotically-connected deal Katrina had, or whatever it was called. A few questions came to mind concerning how it was connected, and then another, not-quite-unrelated question. "Uh, hey, b'fore yeh go, eh, where's th' chamber pot?"

"Over here." Al turned away from the door, and paced over to the other side of the room. Now that Welking's attention was drawn to it, he could see the seams of a door cleanly hidden in the back wall. Al stuck his pawfingers under a half-board and pulled it outward, drawing open the hidden door with it. "Charlie's not real big on drawing attention to the cistern; thinks it's neater to keep it hidden like this. I'm inclined to agree, honestly." He closed the door again; Welking wasn't that desperate yet, so he didn't bother to protest this. "Anythin' else?"

"No, I'm good fer now."

"Then I'll see ya at breakfast. Though I guess it wouldn't be breaking fast for me; I'll probably get the munchies before then!" Before Welking could get out any more questions, Al was out the door and on his way.

Welking shrugged. The whole affair was an interesting diversion, he thought, but now it was beyond time to get to sleep. If any questions still lingered in his mind, they were of diminished importance now. He climbed into bed, slid under the covers, and braced himself for the nightmares.

Oh, did I mention the incessant recurring nightmares that had plagued him since he woke up on the beach? Must have slipped this storyteller's mind.

* * *

**So, here we have another character in Charlemagne's motley crew; unless anything else happens, this should be the last one for a while, but no promises.**

**This chapter was incredibly boring, but it practically wrote itself. Hopefully next chapter will be a bit more interesting; I'm already making headway on it.**


	14. Ch 14: Me and My Old Lady

**Chapter 14: Me and My Old Lady**

_S'all good, and we ain't gonna change, yeah, the world is unaware! So if you want, go on and stare, 'cause we don't care!_

_She ain't no ball and chain, she ain't no ball and chain..._

The journey to Amity's house encountered one more delay, in the form of a clearly inebriated stoat stumbling around in the streets and harassing other beasts. The batfolk peacekeeping force had already arrived on the scene and were attempting, with little effect, to defuse the situation nonviolently; the stoat continued to slosh around his tankard and yell obscene catcalls at just about everybeast in sight.

Amity quickly presented an alternative solution, when she charged in, ducking around the playful swipes of the drunkard, grabbed the tankard out of his paws as she quickly scaled his chest, and brought it down on the back of his neck. He slumped forward, falling into the waiting paws of a batling that had taken position behind Amity. "We'll take it from here," the peacekeeper said. Amity nodded and resumed the trek to her house, whistling an upbeat tune as she went.

Smack kept a wary eye on Amity for the rest of the journey.

Finally, they reached a cozy little cabin on the east coast of the isle. The outside was painted a clean white, with rosy pink trim. A wide variety of candles, pendants, and framed doilies - which Smack eventually recognized as dream-catchers - were strewn all over the porch. A little plaque had been hung on the door; "Bless This Mess," it read, though somebeast had covered up 'Bless' with the word 'Clean' in bright red letters; the glossy texture betrayed how recently it had been painted. "Been waiting for that one," Amity muttered. "I'll have to wash it off before it sets too much."

Smack gave her a funny look behind her back. Waiting? What did she mean by that?

He got his answer almost immediately upon entering the house, but we'll wait on that until after we've described everything else he saw. The inside was every bit as quaint, and every bit as crowded, as the outside. The immediate room had two distinct areas in it: a kitchen and dining area to the left, and a parlor to the right. A kettle boiled over the fireplace in the far wall of the parlor, its lid closed tight to prevent steam from escaping. Nearby sat two cushioned chairs, arranged around a tea table covered in paints and brushes. On the left stood a dining table, with the kitchen extending back into the wall. He could just see the first step of a staircase to the second floor, starting in the kitchen and running behind the back wall of the parlor.

But the most noticeable detail was the paintings. Every wall had been covered in artwork, depicting all manner of landscapes, architecture, and, most prominently, beasts. A few themes in particular appeared in multiple pieces: a hedgehog with a dangerously pale complexion, a mouse with piercing golden eyes that Smack recognized as Martin from his dreams, foreign suits of armor, strange black-and-yellow beasts that seemed exclusively four-legged, and…

"Is that… _me?_" Smack declared incredulously.

Amity nodded. "Yeah, and there's a very good reason why we have twenty paintings of you in our house, but I'll let Jack explain that at dinner."

"Jack?" Smack parroted.

"Jack!" Amity yelled up the stairs. "We've got company!"

As the crash of falling objects sounded in the upstairs rooms, followed by hurried pawsteps, Smack glanced around the room again, and noticed a small canvas in the corner, with a perfect likeness of the vandalized sign on the door. A mild layer of dust had collected on it, which could only mean…

The paint was dry.

He turned back to Amity, just in time to see a remarkably pretty mousemaid throw herself into her arms. They embraced each other in a passionate kiss, which lasted for quite some time. "Oh, I've missed you so!" the mousemaid said as it finally ended.

Amity hugged her tightly. "I missed you too, hon," she said, before giving her another quick peck on the lips.

The mousemaid smiled sweetly, then looked over Amity's shoulder at Smack. "So, is this the beast you spent last night away from home with?"

"I did throw a tankard at him; the least I could do was stick around and make sure he wasn't too badly injured."

"Oh dear, yes, Myriad's note mentioned that. So, is he here for a consolation dinner?"

"Actually, he's staying the night."

"Oh! Would the inn not take him?"

"From what he's said, he's settling down here; inn only takes visitors."

"Oh! Well, then I'd best get started on dinner!" The mousemaid turned to Smack and extended a paw. "My name is Jacqueline Rosaline Evergreen; pleased to meet you!"

Smack accepted the paw. Jacqueline simply held it, instead of shaking. "Uh, I'm Smack," he offered.

She clasped his paw in both of hers and smiled warmly. Then she let go and bustled off to the fireplace. She removed the boiling kettle and hurried off to the kitchen with it. "I'll start the tea brewing. Amity, love, would you set the table?"

"Of course, hon." Amity opened a cupboard and pulled out a clean tablecloth. "What are we having?"

Jacqueline wrapped a mix of herbs and spices in a cheesecloth, tied it off, and dropped it in the kettle. "I'm planning on making a salad; I spent a bit too long painting this afternoon, and didn't start anything earlier."

Amity tossed the tablecloth over the table and smoothed out the wrinkles. She stepped around the counter of the kitchen and pulled a few sets of cutlery from a drawer. "Sounds delicious, luv. Of course, everything you make is delicious, so that's to be expected."

"Oh, you old flatterer!" Jacqueline pulled a bowl out from behind the counter and set it in her work area. She was stopped by Amity putting an arm over her shoulder and kissing her on the cheek.

"You know I am, luv." They kissed once more, then returned to the dinner preparations.

Smack stood awkwardly in the middle of the scene, paws folded in front of him, and watched the interaction in silence. The couple were the same species, but beyond that they were as different as night and day. Amity, in contrast with her name, was hot-headed and rough-hewn, a raw beast with a fiery personality. Jacqueline, on the other paw, was soft-spoken and cheerful, a peaceful creature who probably would never harm another beast intentionally. And yet, despite being nearly opposites, they clearly loved each other deeply.

Amity was now arranging plates on the table; the cutlery had already been set out for three beasts. "Smack, why don't you sit down?" she prompted.

Smack nodded and took a seat. Amity joined him, while Jacqueline continued bustling around the kitchen and tossing ingredients into the salad bowl. Finally, she tossed it a few times with a pair of tongs, and carried it over to the table. She sat down in her seat and began doling out servings to everybeast.

Smack looked at the salad with curiosity, and then concern. "Um, is that… meat?"

Amity was the first to respond. "Yeah, they're from a breed of flightless birds raised 'round the north side of the island. They're incapable of higher thought processes, so no moral dilemmas to worry about."

"Oh, and they have the funniest name, too!" Jacqueline chimed in. "They're called… 'chickens'!" She shook with a petite giggling fit. "Isn't that just the funniest name?"

"Yeah, but I guess any name could be funny if you say it right," Smack countered. "Like this: Fa-awks!" He pulled a silly face as he said this, making Jacqueline continue giggling. "Ma-awse! Oddurrrr! Shroo-ooo! Heedge-hawg! Ssstote! Weezel!" With every distorted name, Jacqueline's giggling fit only increased; even Amity chuckled a few times. Finally, he ran out of ideas, and the laughter died down. "I will admit, though, it's pretty hard to say 'chicken' in a way that isn't funny, but even then they have to compete with squirrels."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, 'sqwerlz'." He held his paws out in a 'you see?' sort of gesture. Jacqueline began laughing again. "And when you try t' say it the way it's spelled, it's 'squirr-relle'!"

This time, Smack finally joined in laughing at his own jokes. The joyful racket carried on for quite some time, until it slowly died away into the muffled sounds of chewing. Finally, Smack spoke up again. "So, erm, was meaning to ask: What's with all the paintings?"

Jacqueline's eyes lit up. "Oh! Amity, you naughty girl, you didn't tell him?"

"Figured I'd save the explanation for you; it's your gift, after all."

"Gift?" Smack repeated questioningly.

"Why yes, it's my special talent!" Jacqueline cleared her throat lightly. "I am, as some would call it, a Seer. I have visions of the future that, while often preventable, are quite likely to happen. But, no matter how large or small, they always come to me in my paints; I can't even see these 'visions' until my paw draws them!"

"Okay…" The strangest part, in Smack's mind, was that after everything that had happened in the last week he actually believed her quite readily. He'd been raised to not trust anybeast that called itself a Seer, but after crossing in less than a day a body of water that had taken his former crew months by ship, listening to the concert of the batfolk, and practicing foreign martial arts with an entirely too friendly rat, he had very little drive to be skeptical.

"Now, as for why there are so many, I simply can't get rid of them! Sometimes they're quite intriguing, and they're always very well-made, but very frequently their significance is too deeply hidden. I mean, it's all well and good to have a painting of yourself, especially a psychic prediction of your future, but if it's simply a vision of you eating a fruitcake, why would you want something like that hanging in your parlor?"

Smack snorted out a small laugh; he knew quite a few families in the far North that would be enthralled by exactly that kind of painting.

"Not to mention the fact that I still have no idea what those black-and-yellow beasties are, or who the mouse is - although I know who _you_ are, now!"

"Yeah, and that's another question: why am I in so many of them?"

Jacqueline didn't answer immediately; she looked around the room, searching for something invisible. Finally, she found the words she wanted. "I don't know. My painting are merely portraits of the future, slices of time from the most probable timeline. The only thing I know is that they're always significant in one way or another, though they're not always significant in the grand scheme of things. All I can really say is, if you're in a lot of them, then you must play a large role in the future."

"Great." Smack leaned back into his chair and exhaled. "Always wanted to change the world." He pushed his now empty plate toward the center of the table.

"Yes, well. You might want to head upstairs and get some sleep now. But first…" Jacqueline hopped out of her chair, ran off into the parlor area, and pulled a canvas out of one of the many stacks of them. She dashed back to the table, sat down again, and held up the canvas for Smack to see. "Ta-da!"

_Two mice and a fox sat around a table. In the center sat a bowl of mixed greens. The mouse in the back was holding up a canvas, showing a duplicate of the overall painting on its surface. The fox, in the foreground, was staring at it with a shocked expression just visible on the side of its muzzle._

Smack stared at the painting with an expression nearly identical to that of the painted fox. If there was any doubt in his mind before, it had now vanished; the rest of the scene could have been set up, but the clothes he wore in the picture were identical to what he had on now, and the burn wounds visible on the back of his head… He reached back and felt behind his ear; yep, there was a bald patch right there. He'd only showed up the day before; there was no way that painting could have been made, dried, and collected dust in that time frame. And even if it had, the countless other immensely detailed portraits of him would have only taken longer. "You really are a Seer," he whispered.

"Ayup! Maybe that's the significance of this painting: it's the moment when you truly believed me!" She set down the painting on the floor, leaned against her chair. Then she hopped up again and grabbed the serving bowl off the table. "Amity, love, could you show him to the guest room?"

Amity slid out of her seat. "Sure thing, hon. Come on, Smack, let's get you settled in." She took him by the paw and led him upstairs.

The guest room was a tidy affair; though there were still several canvases inside, they were carefully stacked in the corners or hung neatly on the walls. The bed was freshly made, as of about a week prior; a slight trace of dust had settled on it since then. A small nightstand stood next to the head, with an oil lamp upon it. Aside from that, the only other item in the room was a wardrobe set against the wall. "It's not much," Amity said, "but it should suit you for the time being."

Smack found himself crying just a bit. "It's perfect."

"Oh. Well… I guess you just enjoy your sleep, then." She turned around to leave.

"Wait." Smack knelt down, pulled Amity in by the shoulder, and embraced her in a warm hug. "I can't thank you enough for how kind you've been to me."

Amity looked down at the fox, momentarily surprised, then reciprocated the gesture. "Don't mention it. Guards are s'posed to help."

A knock sounded downstairs, and the two broke apart. "You get some sleep now, kid," Amity said. She exited the room to see to whoever had come knocking. Smack saw little reason to do anything else but follow her advice, so he opened the wardrobe in search of nightclothes. Unfortunately, though he should have expected it in a guest room, there were none to be found for a beast his size, so he settled for his birthday suit and hung the clean garments he'd been given the morning before on a wire hanger for him to use again tomorrow. He considered hanging the hat up inside the wardrobe as well, but decided to keep it closer at paw for the time being. It was, after all, a very nice hat, if a bit strange.

It also might not have fit inside the compact wardrobe. He set it on the nightstand, taking care to keep it away from the oil lamp. He didn't want his possessions to burn up in the night again; he was one of the few beasts to have experienced such a misfortune more than once in the past. Then again, at least one of those times the rest of the mansion was burning too.

He sat down on the bed and eased himself under the covers. For the first time in a while, his body wasn't nearly weary enough to send him to sleep immediately, and his consciousness slowly faded to the sounds of conversation downstairs.

_Who was that, hon?_

_Oh, just one of the couriers with a note for you; here._

_Hmm… says Taldor sprained his ankle pretty badly this afternoon; he can't make the night patrol._

_Oh my! Is there anybeast available to replace him?_

_Not according to the letter. Sounds like I'll have to fill in for him._

_Oh, and we had plans for tonight._

_Yeah, but 'duty calls', and all that. Sorry, guess our experiment will have to wait._

_Oh, that's okay. We'll just have to make up for lost time later._

_Luv ya, Jackie._

_I love you too, Amity. Take care out there._

_Will do._ The door opened again, then shut shortly thereafter. Smack had just reached the edge of his consciousness, and was beginning to tip over the edge into the realm of nightmare.

Oh my, it seems I've now got to tell you about _two_ nightmares, haven't I? As it turns out, though, it's a bit more complicated than that…

* * *

**I'm going to try to stop these author's notes from next chapter onward. Please leave a review if you've made it this far, and feel free to PM me if anything seems conspicuously inconsistent - it may just be intentional.**

**Credit to The Offspring (again) for the song title.**


	15. Ch 15: Heart of Fire

**Chapter 15: Heart of Fire**

_It was easier to tell you everything you want to hear, but I will surround your heart with lies…_

The dreamer stood on a pathway, Redwall Abbey looming in the distance. He began to walk in its direction, and as was typical in dreams he reached the gateway rather more quickly than physically possible. The enormous gates stood open; the courtyard was devoid of life. The dreamer padded through the abnormal silence, taking in the empty Abbey grounds with trepidation. Redwall should never be so uninhabited as this.

He reached the entrance to the Abbey proper and pushed open the doors. Unlike the rest of the grounds, the Great Hall showed signs of life, or at least that life had recently existed there. One of the great feasts the Abbey was so famous for sat half-finished across the tables. The scene gave him the impression that the meal had been abandoned in a hurry; several dishes had been knocked to the ground, and a few benches had been overturned in a great hurry.

The dreamer made his way through the mess, drawn by the tapestry that hung on the far wall. The image, obscured partially by some strange form of shadow, still clearly displayed the visage of the Abbey's founder, Martin the Warrior. His face was nearly covered entirely by the indistinct shadow, but his golden eyes still shone through.

As the dreamer gazed upon the historical figure, the warrior's eyes began to smolder. The fire quickly spread, coating the tapestry and revealing the true nature of the strange shadow.

Ash.

The dreamer became aware of the sounds of panic around him. He turned to find the once empty hall on fire, with beasts all around trying to escape the raging inferno. None seemed to pay him any heed, as he made his way back outside.

The courtyard was ablaze as well; the flames filled the sky with smoke, nearly blotting out the sun of what was once a cheerful summer day. Panicked beasts flooded toward the four gates; screams of terror filled the air. Several strange creatures, indistinct quadruped masses of black, grey, and yellow, mingled with the fleeing beasts, some picking up survivors and carrying them out, while others fought the fire with sprays of white foam.

The dreamer looked to the sky, and his vision contracted to show only what he saw there. A ball of fire hung in the sky, far smaller and closer than the sun should be. Every so often, a tendril of flame would lash out from the orb and scour the ground below. The dreamer squinted, and could just barely make out the form of somebeast at the heart of the blaze. His vision slowly blurred, as the darkness wrapped around him. Only the ball of flame, now little more than an orange spot, penetrated the darkness. As even that began to fade, words came to the dreamer's ears, spoken by the voice of an unknown goddess.

_The tongue dances like flame, the heart simmers with rage, the eye smolders in hate._

_The heart of fire will lead astray, the devil's dog to set ablaze._

_Be strong. Be brave. Beware._

Smack and Welking shot upright in their beds almost simultaneously.

* * *

The two beasts reacted differently to the dream, although neither would return to sleep. Indeed, it was nearly morning regardless, and further sleep would only be interrupted.

Smack sat on the edge of his bed, sweating profusely. He could almost feel the heat of the burning Abbey from his dreamscape, and despite the superstitions surrounding it he would not be averse to another bath.

More important in his mind, though, was the prophecy he'd just received. He opened the drawer of the nightstand, and found exactly what he was hoping for: paper and a charcoal stick. The charcoal was wrapped with a band of paper, most likely intended to protect the user's paw from going black. The ability to read and write was uncommon among vermin, but as luck would have it he had learned it quite early in life, back when he was being tossed between royal families constantly. He took a moment to translate it into the written symbols he could remember, then set charcoal to paper and began transcribing the poem. After the last line, he added a few notes: _Castle on fire; Redwall Abbey? Source of fire appeared to contain beast, unknown species. Tail shape suggested rodent._ He set down the wrapped charcoal, picked up another paper, and pushed out down over the surface of the first sheet to remove the excess charcoal and prevent it from staining anything. He folded up the note and stepped over to the wardrobe. Opening it, he turned his single set of clothes until he could find a pocket, and deposited the note. He'd have time to look over it later.

He then turned to the window, and found that the sun was just beginning to rise. Well, now was as good a time as any to begin his day. He slid his garments off the hanger and put them on. There may not have been a nudity taboo here, but he didn't want to freeze out there; he never would have considered going out unclothed in the cold back home, and he wasn't about to try it here, especially when it seemed colder here than it had ever been in his old home.

He was about to leave the room, when he got the feeling he was missing something. He turned around and saw Zargothrax's hat sitting on the nightstand, perfectly fine despite spending the night right next to him. He headed back and picked up the cap. He honestly had nothing to lose by wearing it, he thought as he donned it. After all, it had survived a night of his luck unharmed.

He tippawed downstairs, anxious not to wake anybeast up, only to find the house silent. He would have most likely returned to the guest room, were it not for the note on the kitchen counter. Less nervous now, he moved over to the counter and looked down at the note. It took him a moment to decipher it - it wasn't written in the Tysk that he'd been raised on - but eventually he parsed it; thankfully, the characters were almost identical to those used in Tysk. Nevertheless, he found it difficult to translate quietly, and eventually he just decided to read it out loud. "_Smack, last night I painted a piece that has left me fairly concerned. I've taken it to my contact in Gelida's court; I'll be gone most of the morning. Amity had to take an extended shift near Ruddaring to cover for a fellow guard, and won't be back until much later. I've asked one of the batlings to show you around the island once you've finished breaking fast. I also prepared a chicken omelet, which should be in the icebox behind you._" He paused and turned around. Sure enough, there was a crate set into the wall, with slight condensation visible on the metal frame. He opened it to find the omelette, plated with a great deal of care, and a bucketload of ice surrounding it. He removed it, set it on the counter, and turned back to the letter. "_Cutlery is in the drawer on the far left end of the counter. The omelet should taste fine cold. That's about it; I'll see you soon. Regards, Jacqueline._"

She was right; the omelette was absolutely delicious cold, a testament to her skill. He polished it off in record time. He bussed the tableware to the sink, then headed outside.

* * *

Welking's reaction to the dream was tempered by the fact that Abzel was already awake. For somebeast who was, by all accounts, nearly old enough to be a grandmother, she was remarkably energetic; she had been practicing her kata long enough to break a sweat, and said she had nearly woken him up herself when he shot up in bed.

Unlike Smack, though, they hadn't anything else to do with their morning, and so they spent their time discussing the dream. Despite Abzel's hyperactivity, she was very receptive to the discussion. "So," she began after he had finished, "let me get this straight: somebeast fire-themed is coming, and he's going to lie to a 'devil's dog'. Anybeast we know?"

"Well, I don' really know enny hearts o' fire, although I guess Smack's little incident back on th' beach was priddy hot. As fer devil dogs… foxes?"

"Possibly. Could be Evil-Dog."

"Well, th' name fits, but less be 'onest, thass about all 'at does."

"Yeah. Poor pup."

"'E's got Switch, though."

"Heh." Abzel sat down on Welking's bed, scooting back to the wall. "She's a bit of a problem child, though, don't you think? Although, I guess he's generally not the victim of her mischief."

"Yeh." They were silent for a moment, then Welking said, "Mebbe Katrina?"

"I hope not. Poor girl's got enough to deal with, without being the target of some crazy prophecy."

"Think we sh' tell Charle?"

"'Hey, Charlie, your quiet, reserved daughter may or may not be the subject of some mysterious prophecy!'"

"Yah, yeh gotta point there." Welking finally decided to stand up. "Eh, less juss go see if Seamus is makin' brekkist yet."

"You know the way?"

"Charle gave me a fancee map; check this thing out." He picked up the sheet from beside his bed and unrolled it.

"Woah… Where are we?"

"Here, inna Dormitory Wing." Welking gave her a skeptical glance. "Can't yeh read?"

"No, sadly that never ranked very high on my list of priorities as a pirate." Abzel hopped off the bed and returned to her own. She pulled out her food sack from underneath the bed, popped a strip of beetle jerky in her mouth, and shoved the sack back under. "Lead the way."

Welking nodded. He took a moment to scan the map and commit the path to the mess hall to memory, then rolled up the resined parchment again. He stood up and reached for the door lever-

And paused, as it turned itself. The door slid open, and the strangest beast either of them had ever seen stepped into the room.

* * *

The creature was predominately black and yellow, decorated in a pattern that was quite clearly artificial. It strode in on four legs, none of which seemed structured to use as arms. Its paws resembled those of the arguably mythical horse, but slimmer and more poseable to match its more catlike posture. A strangely boxlike head capped its spine at one end, while the other terminated in a long, lashing tail.

It stared up at them for a moment, then emitted a series of short notes and weaved its way past them. A set of small arms unfolded from its boxy head, with which it proceeded to clean the room. It started with the washbasins, quickly rearranging the decorative flowers and replacing a few from chambers within its body, and scrubbing out the interiors with small spinning pads. It then moved on to the floor, cleaning and polishing in a spiral outward from the center column.

When it reached Abzel's bed, it paused and poked its head underneath the frame. It pulled out like a bird pulling at a worm, bringing the food sack with it. Abzel rushed forward and grabbed the sack. "Hey, get your… uh, _face_, offa that!" The creature quickly complied, then jumped around her and skittered over to the wardrobe. Pulling it open, it removed a back panel and procured a long, thin box, which it then placed beside the bed. It looked up at her, then gestured with one face-paw to the sack and another to the box. Another burst of tones sounded from within its cubic skull, presumably a statement that the contents of the box were safe from cleaning, or something along those lines.

"Thanks, but I think I'll keep it for now." Abzel tied off the end of the sack and slung it over her shoulder. The creature gave a confirmation note and pushed the box under the bed with its tail, then returned to its rotation of the floor. Abzel, meanwhile, decided it was time to leave. "Come on, Welking; let's go eat."

"Er… yah, less do that." They exited the room, closing the door on the metal maid creature as it continued with its silent task.

"So," Welking said after a few paces, "yer real protective o' that bag there. Whass so importent 'bout a bunch o' food?"

"Well, it's-it's **food!**" Abzel's voice quite suddenly filled with hostility. "You don't get much of that on a pirate ship; you get even less in the desert! You need to hold on to every little scrap, just in case you lose the source!"

"Not likely t'happen here." Welking had, just barely, heard Alphonse's pawsteps before he cut into the conversation. Abzel, on the other paw, was caught completely off-guard, and jumped straight into the air with a yelp of fright. Al watched with a twinkle of amusement in his natural eye. "Figgered those ears would be a bit more sensitive; guess not."

"Yer damned quiet, mate."

"You should hear me when I'm tryin' t'be quiet." Al chuckled. "Then again, ya probably couldn't!"

"Yeh mean ya weren't even tryin' ta sound lighter'n a heartbeat?"

"Ya flatter me, but I think ye'd still hear my heartbeat then, considerin' you noticed me comin'."

Welking stared at him with astonishment written across his face. "How d'yeh figger that?"

"You turned ever so slightly t'look at me when I showed up. Nothin' obvious, but I can spot the little details like that."

"Somethin' t'do widdat eye o' yers?"

"Azzamaddafact, yes. I'll explain in a moment, but, eh, it appears we've stopped moving." He waved for them to follow, and they resumed their journey to the kitchen. "So, the eye. Charlie designed it as a visual enhancement device. It's got ultraviolet, infrared, and even sonic feeds, and it can interface with this bracer here-" he held up the metal cuff that adorned his left arm "-for an enhanced tactical view, or, eh, 'Heads-Up Display' as Charlie calls it."

"Ehhh… am I serposed t'be impressed? Cuz I din' unnerstand any o' that 'feed' stuff, an' I don' see whass so speshel 'bout a Heads-Up Dis-Play."

"Well, first, it's 'dis**play**'; the second syllable's got the emphasis. Next, the feeds are just different ways of looking at the world. Ultraviolet and infrared are colors most beasts are unable to see. Imagine, if you will, a color that is to red what red is to orange; that's infrared."

"Uh… I ain't th' most 'maginative beast."

"I guess you'd have to be able to see it to understand what it feels like to be able to. In any case, the benefit of havin' something like that is that, because most beasts can't see it, you get a different view of the world. This is best in the tactical departments of technology, because you can't hide yourself in a spectrum you can't see." He tapped the temple of his metal eye and focused on Welking. "For example, I'm currently viewing you in the infrared spectrum. Wanna see what you look like?"

Welking nodded. Alphonse winked with his artificial eye, then began tapping on his bracer. The surface glowed into life, with a brilliant blue sheen that reflected off a slightly recessed flat area on the outside. He tapped his way through a variety of graphs, then produced an image that looked utterly foreign to Welking: himself, in purple, pink, and orange.

As he examined the bizarre image, details began to come to his attention. His nose was slightly darker than the rest of his face; his eyes, mouth, and inner ears, on the other paw, were bright orange. "What ezzactly'm I lookin' at?"

"This," Al said with an air of scientific haughtiness, "is your body heat. Many creatures have incredible natural camouflage to hide from predators - or prey - but in the infrared spectrum, their bodies are lit up like bonfires." He started walking again. "In addition, lots of things that are normally opaque are transparent in infrared, meaning I can see straight through them."

"Woah."

"Woah indeed. As for ultraviolet, that's the color off the other side of the spectrum, past purple, but it doesn't have as much, eh, _tactical_ benefit as infrared. Charlie just threw it in there for completeness' sake.

"Now, sonic, that's another matter. Picture this: seeing sounds."

"Are yeh… are yeh 'avin a lark?"

"Not even a bit. Bats already do it, in a sense. They send out a small sound, then listen to the echo to determine how far away obstacles are. My version is a bit different, though; it only listens to the sounds already occurring in the world. Of course, since I don't live in total darkness, I still get a visual image, but I can overlay it with audio input parsed into a visual format. The system runs incoming sounds through a few filters to pick out the pitches that will be the most useful to me, and then it renders them into a heat-map display that-"

"Yeh lost me."

"You lasted longer than most. Suffice to say that I can see your heartbeat."

Welking stared at him. "You… can?"

"Yes. It's not perfect, and the range is pitifully small, but I can still pick you out from your surroundings from the timbre of your heart rate and breath. Combine that with the tactical overlay from my bracer, and I get a nice little circle in my peripheral vision that shows me everybeast within about twenty paces."

"So," Welking began, motioning to the quickly approaching mess hall door, "can you see if anybeast will be joining us for breakfast?"

"It'd be better to ask me a question I couldn't answer by other means, but we'll run with it. No, everybeast else is asleep right now." He paused right in front of the door, then frowned. "Actually, there might be somebeast in there… don't seem to have a heartbeat, though…" He tapped his bracer. "Oh. Somebeast must have made a mess in there."

He swung the door open, and the trio was greeted by another metal beast cleaning the floor with an array of spinning brushes. Al walked past it with barely a sideways glance, patting it on its pronounced spine ridge as he went. "Don't mind us, Golgi; just making breakfast." The creature whirred in reply, attention still totally focused on the cleaning of the floor.

Welking was slower in skirting around the beast. "What are 'ese things ennyway?"

Alphonse slid behind the counter and began assembling the components of the morning meal. "Charlie's little 'maid' service. He's made a bunch of different models for them, to fill all sorts of purposes in his day-to-day affairs. I'm not sure what he calls this model, but they're the cleanup crew around here. He's also got packdogs, the jack-of-all-trades military support units; groundhogs, the digging and demolition units; paper wasps, the architecture and construction crews; and… well, security and peacekeeping drones, which I don't actually remember the name of. Each one of the different models is designed for exactly one purpose; you won't see groundhogs sweeping the floor, or packdogs digging out a mine." He pulled out a bowl of bright orange orbs from a steam-filled cupboard in the wall; Welking felt a brief wave of cold air as the door shut again. "You ever had fish eggs?"

Abzel perked up quite abruptly. "Oh, oh, yeah I have! Oh they're SO GOOD Welking like you would not BELIEVE how good they are!"

"Oh, that's right, Seamus said you were from Tassa. Well, you'll like this breakfast, 'cause I'm gonna make a masala."

"**YES!**" Abzel screeched, leaping into the air. Welking pitched forward, paws cupped over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the massive outburst that had already started a ringing inside his head. Unhindered by this, Abzel continued babbling. "OH MY HELLGATES the food in Tassa was THE BEST THING EVER I could just keep eating and eating and EATING AND **EATING**! Welking Welking Welking we gotta get a table come on!" Heedless to his pain, she grabbed him roughly by the arm and started dragging him to a table.

Alphonse stared for a little while longer, then chuckled lightly. "It's like you don't even use commas," he quipped, before returning to meal preparations. His tail, previously relatively inactive, whipped up over his shoulder and acted as a sort of third limb for adding spices, allowing him to hold the pan and spatula with his paws unhindered.

Welking, after a moment to recover from the audial assault, focused on the strange appendage. "What 'appened ta yer tail?"

"Cut it off," Al said nonchalantly, shaking a bit of garlic into the pot over his shoulder. "Not as useful; not prehensile enough."

"No sob stories or grand adventures?"

"Nope, just pure engineering utility." He picked up a small spoon with his tail, doled out a dab of the masala onto it, and took a taste. "Yeah, that's ready." His tail snaked down behind the counter, fished out a stack of bowls, and expertly rolled them out onto the counter in a line. He poured a helping of masala into each, picked one up in each paw, and wrapped the third in his tail. He carried the helpings over to the table, as Abzel slowly went mental in her seat. Her bowl was only on the table for a fraction of a second before she dug in. "Take care you don't eat the spoon," Al joked, though his voice betrayed a hint of concern that she might actually do just that.

The fear was unfounded, but he soon found himself regretting the joke anyway. Abzel, now aware of the existence of the spoon, picked it and her bowl up, and began directly shoveling masala into her mouth. Within seconds, she had finished off the entire helping. She frantically inspected the bowl for any last remnants of food, then held it up to Al with pleading eyes.

"Hey," Welking said, pushing over his bowl. "Yeh c'n 'ave this; 'm not all 'at 'ungry."

Al stopped the bowl halfway. "No, she can have mine. My fault, really, for underestimating a Fennec's appetite." He passed her the bowl (or rather, narrowly avoided putting his paw in her mouth) and sauntered over to the counter. "I can just make another-"

"No, I believe I will handle that, Master Alphonse." Welking turned to see Seamus marching into the room, dressed in some form of martial arts uniform.

Alphonse's expression brightened in recognition. "C!" he greeted, with one of the most pointless nicknames Welking has ever heard. "What's with the outfit?"

Seamus took his station in the kitchenette and started preparing another round of masala. "I wouldn't expect you to be aware, seeing as you spend all your time hidden away, but our guests are familiar with Shuan-Ge kata; Abzel has agreed to give a demonstration for Katrina's benefit."

"Oh?" Al raised an eyebrow. "Well, won't that be exciting! Speaking of, where _is_ Katy?" As he asked, he tried to squeeze his way past Seamus and out of the cramped kitchenette, but failed to find an opening.

"She should be along shortly; she had planned to wear her uniform to breakfast as well, but it needed to be refabricated after her last session."

Abzel tilted her head to one side. "What happened then?"

Al finally gave up on trying to slide by Seamus, and turned to the back wall. Then, with a small "Hup!" he jumped up, kicked off the wall, and vaulted over the counter. He landed lightly on all fours, then pushed himself up to a bipedal stance and rubbed his paws together. "Funny story, that. Y'see, Charlie's a bit hung up on training in realistic situations. He says if you train kata without an actual opponent, you'll just get overwhelmed and forget everything in a real fight. Basically, what that means is that he has us train with fake beasts, kinda like the drones he came up with."

He motioned to Golgi, who was off in the far corner of the room cleaning up dust under one of the tables. "Got a whole bunch o' those, modeled after jus' about every species you're ever likely to meet out in the world. Has us train against them regularly, to prepare us for… well, whatever might happen."

Seamus finished whatever he had been cooking, and portioned it out into five bowls. "Master Alphonse, I'm disappointed in you. Once again, you've forgotten the paneer."

"I never forget the paneer," Al said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I avoid it intentionally."

Abzel gasped. "But the paneer's the best part; why would you leave it out?"

"It's cheese," he responded. "It's made with milk. Milk is gross."

Welking's face wrinkled in confusion. "Don'tcha use greensap fer makin' cheese?"

"No, paneer is traditionally made with milk," Seamus replied. "It's part of the Tassan cultural heritage; and beyond that, greensap cheese is just a bit too plant-like in flavour."

"Flavor," Al said.

"That is what I said."

"No, you said 'flavour'. You added that weird 'oo' sound at the end again."

Seamus handed him his bowl of masala with a fierce glare accompanying it. "I may not be a hare, but you would do well to allow me my verbal idiosyncrasies."

Al snorted. "And you'd do well to let me cook, but that doesn't stop you from stealing the show every time you enter the room - Ayo! _Chica!_ Why the long face?"

Welking turned to see Katrina in the doorway, staring at Alphonse with a look of dumbfounded shock. It took her a few seconds to find her voice. "Oh, um… Alphonse! What… what are you doing out of… out here?"

"Eh, got bored of dim lighting and cramped spaces. Heard Charlie had some guests over, figured I'd take a looksee." He paused to take a bite of his masala, opened his mouth to speak again, and was promptly interrupted by a series of tones from his bracer: high-low, high-low! "Mm? Ah, _carajo._ Groundhogs hit a snag; gotta go straighten 'em out. Hey, Katy!" He pointed a claw at her. "You're awesome! Stay awesome!" His pointing transitioned into a thumbclaws-up, then he saluted as he backed out of the room in a strange shuffle-step. "Take care! _Adios!_"

The room filled with silence once again, as Seamus and Katrina served up their masala and took their seats at Welking and Abzel's table. After a prolonged soundtrack of silent chewing, Welking quipped, "Lovely weather we're having."

* * *

**I WROTE. SO MUCH.**

**WHY DID I DO THIS.**

**AGH.**

**Sorry. I really overdid myself here.**

**Credit to Innerpartysystem for the song title.**


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